


Day of the Jaguar

by Darklady



Series: Hornet-verse [10]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Doc Savage - Kenneth Robeson, Indiana Jones Series, The Phantom (1996)
Genre: Crossover, Epic, F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 79,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love. Duty. Destiny.<br/>The Gold Throne of the Jaguar God.</p><p>(or - What I did on my Summer Vacation. By Dick Grayson.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sudden Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a work of Fan Fiction. Batman, Nightwing, and all related 'superhero' characters are the property of DC Comics and/or Warner Brothers. Doc Savage and all related characters are the property Conde’ Nast, the estate of Mrs. Lester Dent, and/or other copyright holders. Indiana Jones is the creation of George Lucas. The Phantom is the property of the Hearst Corporation. Various fan fiction references have been incorporated as a tribute to the writers. All borrowed characters are the property of their respective creators. No commercial use is being made and no copyright infringement is intend. This story is to be viewed as 'satire' for purposes of law.
> 
> This is the second story written in the Hornet-verse - back in 2002. As such - it it very much finished. All 37 chapters! I will be posting on a steady schedule. Please forgive any roughness in the style. I like to think I have improved somewhat - but likewise feel bound to present the Hornet-verse 'intact' as it was created.

Lost in study, my first warning is the slam of my office door. I open my awareness to the intruder.

“Dick!” I rise from my chair. It’s great to see him, but...why? Didn’t he mention having some police business in Bludhaven today?

“Damn it, Bruce!”

Quick mental check. What did I do now? That Dick would object to? That he could know about? Oh well. At least if he’s yelling he’ll tell me. That’s better then the silent sulks.

“Dick?” I ask. Should I apologize? I have now idea what for, but...

“Those idiots!” He slams his fist into the back of a leather chair.

Not me, then. Probably no one important.

“Why the hell did I ever become a cop?”

Danger! Do *not* touch that line. “What’s wrong”, I ask. Because something is. Nothing too serious, but still...

Dick spins. “Do I look stressed to you?”

Not a question. And I do not fall for obvious traps.

“I am not stressed. I have no reason to *be* stressed. I am the least stressed person you could ever meet.” He paces the carpet, pausing only to snatch the mints off my desk.

“OK, Dick. Who said...?”

“Dr. Bashir, that’s who.” He punches the chair again in passing. “Staff shrink at Bludhaven PD. She’s got some weird theory about overtime. Says we don’t take our vacations and so we get stressed and so *that’s* why the force has so many fuck-ups. Not Redhorn, not Roland Desmond, not the FBI. No, it’s all ‘cause we flipping don’t go to the beach.”

“Which annoys you because?”

“She gave me a month to take off two damn weeks. At least.” He makes another grab at the mints. “And the bitch even wants to know where I plan to go. Like some stupid school essay. ‘Where I went on my Summer Vacation’, by little Dickie Grayson.”

OK. It’s nothing. By tomorrow he’ll be over this. Which does not mean I can’t take advantage of it today. Because, damn it, Dick *does* need a vacation.

“How about South America?” I ask.

“What?” That stops him. And just when he was in the middle of a great rant.

“Santa Amoza, to be precise.”

“Why would I want to go to Santa Amoza?” His voice is calm now. Mildly curious.

“Well. It’s warm. There are beautiful beaches, scenic mountains - and a little question I might like help clearing up.”

I smile at his expression. After fifteen years I do know his weak spots.

“A case?”

“Not exactly. More of a businessman Bruce Wayne question at this point. Although?” I give it some thought. Why not a full scale investigation? If it is nothing? If they are clean, or at least insignificantly criminal, no one need ever know. No harm, no foul. If not? Perhaps a little prevention would be in order. Either way... I punch up a file. “You know about WayneTech's recent expansion into inland Santa Amoza and Delezon?”

“Cell phones and net links.” Dick shrugs. “ Some radio.”

“A bit advanced for the area, but the investment is justified. And air is far more economical then putting in ground lines. If the area is to move forward, global linkage is the only way...”

“Yeh.” He cuts me off with a smile. “I heard the speech. From Lucius.”

“Well. As we moved in, we naturally came in contact with the local businesses. For the most part, no problem. The usual bribes and politics, but no problem. We understand where they are coming from. We know what we can accept. And the local organizations do want to do business. Except for one.” A part of me will always be his teacher. As he listens, I warn to my theme. “One very unusual little company. Or perhaps not that little. Quarter billion a year in apparent capital transactions. Offices listed in Metropolis, London, and Crescent City. Warehouses in Calais and Brighton as well. Listed stock, but no movement. On the books, a nice little privately held shipping company.”

“Except?” Dick makes the question rhetorical.

“They don’t seem to want to ship for us. In fact, they don’t seem to ship anything for anyone.”

“Drugs?” This time the question is real. “Guns? Jewels?” He pauses a moment. “People?”

“I don’t know. Which is why I was considering paying a short visit to Santa Amoza. To solve the mystery of the Hidalgo Trading Company.”

As I speak, I can see the strategist in Dick emerge. A mystery has always appealed to him. He drops sideways into the abused guest chair, relaxed and happy. “So. Who are we taking?”

“Taking?” He knows me too well. Still, I try to sound offended, “You think Batman and Nightwing need backup to take down one puny smuggler?”

Dick gives me the *look*.

“Dinah or Jean-Paul.” I concede. “I’d rather take Bane for his local experience, but...some of that experience was entirely *too* local. I don’t want to stress him this soon out of rehab.”

Dick nods agreement. Even at the worst times I felt he had a sympathy for all Bane had been through. I am reminded again how Dick is a truly good person.

“So other then an international spy or your own personal assassin, we’ll actually be spending a whole two weeks on our own?” Dick laughs. That sound should be registered. “How romantic.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Hardly. Unless your idea of romance is an evening in the cave going over half a century of financial reports. Oracle has delivered every one of Hidalgo’s known and unknown accounts. That's a lot of money to wade through. More than I thought.

Dick may not care much for finance as a career, but he's viciously sharp when it comes to law enforcement. The IRS would love to have him. Except, as he pointed out the last time I told him that, he is *not* a villain.

By ten o'clock, two things are obvious.

First: This crew is trickier than the Penguin. Richer too. If they are not straight Barbara may get a new mainframe. Not that I totally approve of her habit of robbing thieves, but it *is* in the tradition. And at least she's not murdering murderers.

Second: Whatever they are doing to get that rich, it isn't moving cargo. The company owns two ships, but neither of them has docked at a registered port since computer registration started. And that was in the sixties. They own five warehouses, but according to the tax records never take in goods. They own six airplanes - including, I'm shocked to discover, a WayneTech AT 4210 - but hire no pilots and file no flight plans. They have cars without drivers and offices without employees. And they have quite a number of well-filled bank accounts.

All considered, perhaps I'm better off if they *don't* want my business.

The monitor chimes for attention. Oracle.

"Batman here."

“I have more info on the Hidalgo Trading Company.” The silver face speaks from the corner of the large computer screen. “It took some looking, but they do have a list of public officers.”

“Go on.”

“President and CEO, Mrs. Patricia Renwick. American citizen, but permanent legal resident of Hidalgo. Married to a General John Renwick. Same citizenship, same residency. He's retired from the U.S. Army and also on the board.”

Interesting. Weapons can be a hot commodity in South America.

“Also another military man. General Thomas J. Roberts. He appears to keep an address in Crescent City, but customs records show him as visiting Hidalgo six times last year alone. Long visits, as there was a visa issued each time.”

I scan the list of names that has appeared on the screen. “All Americans?”

“Two Hidalgo natives, also with US citizenship. Theo and Adrianna Fiero. Apparently siblings. They are younger then the others, and were elected to the board within the last ten years. They replaced a Mrs. Mona Fiero. No reason given for the change.”

“Nice little family business.” Dick has noticed what I have. What the SEC should have noticed.

“That's it?” I ask, not from doubt but from shock. Five members is a minuscule board for a company of that size.

“Two over the legal minimum, with three unrelated persons.” Barbara’s opinion comes past the mechanical filter loud and clear. “It’s legal.”

I ignore the sarcasm. “What can you give me on their background?”

“Just now?” The screen shifts again. “Nothing much. Some data on the two military men. They had fairly impressive careers. Not what you'd expect if you were looking for smugglers.”

Not, I think to myself, that you can ever tell.

Dick smiles at the cave camera. “Thanks, babe. Send it over. And try to get more on the others in the morning.”

The printer hums to life as the screen goes blank.

“That’s it, Bruce. We’ve done all we can tonight.” Dick yawns, stretching. “I’m headed upstairs.”

I watch his back as he heads for the cave stairs. I may have to rethink the meaning of romance.

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Colors of Crime

It's a good day for flying. Calm and clear. Lucius has included the pilot, since we wont be keeping the plane once we reach Santa Amoza. That means I can sit in the back and play passenger.

Ten hours in the air. Not a bad flight, although without Alfred the food suffers. But he is better taking care of Tim. And of Gotham.

This time, I had the foresight to pick the movie. A Midsummer Night's Dream with Anna Friel and Calista Flockhart. Very inspiring. Left to himself Dick has a regrettable taste for bad 'action' videos. Not as bad as Tim's ‘horror’ flicks, but still quite grim.

Of course, we share the main cabin with Dinah, which takes some of the enjoyment out of the trip. But not overly much. She is a friend.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

"Earth to Bruce." A voice near my ear. "Thirty minutes to landing."

Dinah knows better then to touch me when I'm asleep. And I have been asleep, napping in the recliner in front of the TV set. Last nights exercise with the car thieves must have gotten to me.

I start towards the pilot's cabin, but Dinah shakes her head. Dick must already be up there. I'll leave it to him then. 

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

"Senor Wayne"

The voice comes from the other side of the Customs booth. I glance over to see a delegation of my managers. Someone in the executive office must have tipped them off to my vacation plans. So much for privacy. 

“Senor Wayne. Over here.”

Miguel Javier Alvarez, my Vice-President of Development for this region. He is waving now, which appears to annoy the officer who is going all too thoroughly through Dinah's luggage. Not that we are carrying anything dubious. That came in separately. Last night.

“Retroceda atras la barrera!”

One to many late shifts, or something *is* making the officers nervous.

“?Dont que usted sabe quien esto es? Esto Sr. Bruce Wayne, el dueno de Industrias de Wayne!” Alvarez is polite, but insistent.

Perhaps it's the name, perhaps it's the obvious expense of Alvarez's suit, but the answer is calmer. “Soy arrepentido, perp hemos sido ordenadoa al ser alerta.”

“El es una persona muy importante. ?Piensa usted queel llevaria el arte hurtado con calcetines? Ademas, el viene en nuestro pais, no partida.”

Stolen art? No reason to let the customs officer know that I understand. I make my gaze wander around the airport. Decent facility. Repainted since my last visit. It's good to see that not all the taxes I am paying are ending up in some official’s pocket.

I took my eyes off Alvarez a bit too long, so I’m not certain if he passed a bill to the officer, or just waved at him. Either way, I’m sure I’ll be told later. Something persuades the man. He closes Dinah's suitcase and waves us past. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. And please, enjoy your visit to Santa Amoza.”

Alvarez is there the moment we pass the gate. He's brought Victor Soto and Ramon Martinez, the managers of the two largest plants. I repeat names and shake hands all around.

They are still blocking the gate when Dick and Dinah come through. “Perhaps we should move?” I suggest politely.

“Of course, Senor Wayne, We would not wish to inconvenience your lovely companion." Martinez flashes his most practiced smile at Dinah. Obviously susceptible to blondes. "Please, Senorita, let me help.”

He puffs a bit under the weight of Dinah's suitcase. She must be peeved, because she lets him.

Dick follows, scooping up his case and mine.

There is more on the plane, but the delivery service will take care of that.

“We have a car waiting and...” Soto pauses, counting heads. Apparently gossip had not warned him to bring a limo.

Dick comes to his rescue. Kind as always. “That's OK. You take the first car and we'll follow up when they've cleared all the luggage.”

“Thanks Dick. Dinah, I'll...”

“...See you at the hotel.” Dinah finishes my sentence for me. She waves as I head off with the men.

Dick knows I'd rather be with him, but to refuse their efforts would hurt them greatly. They've gone to a great deal of trouble to welcome me. And their efforts are to my benefit.

Martinez uses the ride in to review the retrofitting of out new plant in Alta Verapaz. He worries that installing air-conditioning on the work floor will over stress the local electrical supply. A problem, but with the local weather in the high nineties. I cannot see how we can expect quality work without it. Perhaps we should build our own power plant as well. If power is as scarce as he states, it should not be difficult to find customers for any excess.

Soto needs some guidance with the personnel office. We have always offered literacy classes to our employees, but at Izabal this is causing difficulties. Most of the population speaks Q'eqchi', which has no written form. Should he drop the classes, or offer spoken Spanish so the students will have a language they can read? The later seems logical, but it might offend nativist sensibilities. I suggest that he offer English and French as well. Treating Spanish as a foreign language should diffuse the local emotion.

By the time we reach the hotel Alvarez has invited me to dinner. I accept on behalf of all three of us. This will be Dick's first visit to Santa Amoza, and he is always interested in meeting the local people when he travels.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Alvarez must have told his driver to take the scenic route. Dick and Dinah have reached the hotel before us. They have handled check-in, and the manager is waiting with my keys.

I am glad. I was hoping for a few hours to relax and settle in.

Oracle chose the Castillo de Perlas, and she chose well. Only six stories, situated on the cliff edge with a spectacular view of the Pearl Beach. Frame and stucco. Climbable, if it comes to that. Nothing taller nearby.

We have half the top floor. I would have preferred all of it, but Barbara had to work within time constraints. The other suite is registered to an American tourist named Walker. Arizona rancher who married into serious money. He's traveling alone. If I was Mrs. Walker, I 'd be worried. Not my problem. He's on a jungle tour. With any luck they will stay out until we are gone.

The rooms aren't bad. Too open to be truly secured. Long balconies and glass doors on the ocean side. I remind myself that this *is* a vacation. We will *not* be under attack. A few extra sensors on the glass and railings should be perfectly adequate under the circumstances.

I unpack, then shower, stepping out of the bathroom just in time to see Dick plop on the bed and begin flipping through a pack of tourist brochures. He must have raided the rack in the lobby. I smile as the spins a few my way. Balloon rides, parasailing, jungle rides. All tourist level, but with Dick they might be fun. Dick has a way of making most things fun.

Dick shrugs when I tell him about our dinner invitation, but then he smiles. I know he would rather we spent this evening together. So would I. But he understands the needs of business diplomacy. And there will be plenty of time for us later.

Alvarez offered to send a car, but I prefer my own driver. Dick has dismissed him, but the concierge will know how to call him back.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Lovely house, gracious wife, total waste of time. Except for the glimpse of local domestic life. There is still certain class awareness. Not as severe as in Bwunda or Santa Prisca, but it does indicate that they have a distance to go in terms of social progress. I am told the local food is good, but they served us steaks. Still, their cook is excellent. 

We relax with coffee after dinner. Thankfully, Miguel Alvarez has exhausted the topic of containerized cargo. Which gives me a chance to change the subject.

“So tell me, Senora Alvarez. What is this I hear about an art theft?”

“Oh, Senor Wayne." She leaps gratefully for the change of subject. Apparently cargo packaging has worn out its charm for her as well. “That is a terrible thing. A shame to the nation.” A moment’s pause as she settles into her story. “The Tongue of the Jaguar. It was on display at the National Museum. But it did not belong to them. It was only on loan, from the Cultural Museum of Hidalgo. For forty years on loan, and no one thought about it. But then, last month - they asked for it back. A great sorrow, but what could we do?” 

From her broad gesture, the answer is clearly meant to be nothing. I give her a smile to encourage the story.

She leans forward, delighted to be the focus of attention. “So the curator, he says ‘yes, he will give it back’, but the government of Hidalgo, they must send a guard for it.”

“Which they do?” Dick asks. Obvious, but he knows I want to keep her talking. Or perhaps he is just desperate for any new topic.

“A whole squad of soldiers. Plus the curators of the National Museum and the Cultural Museum. And the Minister of Culture herself.” Hands fly into the air to emphasize the obvious grandeur of the assembly. “And they go to the National Museum early in the morning. So there is no traffic, you understand?”

I nod solemnly, not wishing to interrupt the flow of words.

“But when they get there, the Tongue, it is gone.” Sra. Alvarez sighs dramatically. “So now there is a scandal.”

And a wonderful story for a dinner party, my more cynical mental voice adds.

She continues. “The Minister blames the curator, the curator blames the guards, and everyone in Hidalgo blames all of us for having a thief in our midst.”

Dick gives Sra. Alvarez his most charming smile. The one that got him hot coca with marshmallows when he was nine. “This Tongue? Is it a statue? An artifact?”

“A... how would you say.... a dagger. But very old. Mayan. A dagger of flint. With a hilt of solid gold.” She holds her hands out to indicate size. More like a machete, if I go by her spread fingers. But perhaps knives, like fish, grow in telling. “I'm sure it will be found muy rapidamente. Still, be careful going inland, Senor Wayne.”

I turn to Miguel Alvarez. “I was told this area is stable?”

“But of course” his wife answers. “It is just that... in the hill country....” She gives me the ‘garden club’ smile I know so well from Gotham. “The people there are not educated, the way we are in the city. Now and then there are .... problems. Sacrifices.”

Miguel Alvarez sends her a glare. “Please ,esposa. You will have our guests thinking we are barbarians.”

She ignores him. “Solamente animal sacrifices.” She pats my hand reassuringly. “Never human, of course. The policia would take care of that instante. Perhaps they should be more firm, but... one hesitates to interfere with a la religiosa.”

Sr. Alvarez is getting uncomfortable. Probably time to change the subject, Still...as long as she is talking, I’ll try one more question. “And this theft connects to that... how?”

“Because it is...Oh, but of course.” She gives me the indulgent smile parents generally save for ignorant children. “The Tongue of the Jaguar is the blade of Xibalba. When the Mayans ruled, they used it to kill their Gods.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

It's late before we can make our goodbyes. The car is dark, and I lean back against Dick's shoulder. “Catwoman?” I ask.

I feel Dick shrug. “It doesn't seem worth her while. Besides, she should still be busy with that job for the Louvre. The Mona Lisa recovery.”

“She took that job?” I had heard that it was open, but Salina generally doesn’t like overseas work.

“According to Barbara, the French are paying handsomely. And it is more in her style.”

I smile at that. Say what they will about Selina Kyle, she always has had an excellent eye for art. I close my eyes. “Well, steal from a thief, and he probably won't call the police.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

I'm starting to enjoy the evening by the time we reach the hotel. The air is warm, and the sky is beautiful. With the moon near full, the waves are silvered even now.

“Bruce? Care for a drink on the terrace?” 

I smile to myself. Dick reads my mind sometimes.

“I'll just head upstairs.” Dinah being discrete. Wonderful. Not that we both don’t sincerely enjoy her company, but...

We make our way to a nice table overlooking the ocean and sit back. It's late, so we have most of the area to ourselves. The waiter has just brought tall glasses of the local fruit juice when our pagers go off. Both of them at once.

“Yes?”

“Here”

It's Dinah. “I think you both had better come upstairs. We've had a visitor.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

When we exit the elevator Dinah is standing by the suite door. Healthy enough, but I can see she's been in a fight. Although the smashed furniture in the foyer might supply some clue.

“What happened?”, Dick asks.

“Came out of the lift to find a man at the door. Trying to pick the lock. I objected. He tried to run. I tried to stop him.” 

Thus the furniture. The *former* furniture. I look over the shattered room. At least there's no visible blood.

“Lord.” Dinah looks for a place to sit down, but the chairs are kindling. “How am I going to explain this to the hotel?”

“I take it whoever did this got away?” A question, not a statement of the obvious. It gets me an answer.

“He went out that window.” She points to the long French windows with their balcony.

Dick goes over and looks out. “Easy drop.” And obviously no trace of his flight, or Dick would follow.

I move up to inspect the damaged doorframe. “What did he look like?”

“Local.” 

I gesture her to continue.

“Dark hair, dark eyes. Hill tribe features. Plain clothes. Jeans and a chambray shirt. Could work at the hotel, but no uniform.”

In other words? Anybody. 

A flash of color catches my eye. Something snagged on a hinge during the fight. I look closer. A thin shred of turquoise. Another of bright pink. 

Interesting. 

Parrot feathers. 

 

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. A Plan of Action

Warm sand. Cool sea breeze. A beautiful woman to bring me Mai-Tai's. Life is perfect.

Not that Dinah would actually bring me a Mai-Tai. But as I wouldn't drink one if she did, that need not be considered. This is still Santa Amoza's famed Pearl Beach, and it is still a beautiful day.

Looking out over the azure water, I give a mental pat to Dr. Bashir, who had the good sense to expedite Dick's vacation over the objections of Captain Addad. Once Dick makes detective it will be harder for him to get away.

This is our second day of vacation. The first was spent in travel. Even with a private jet, it's a long trip. Made longer because I refused to land in Santa Prisca for fuel. Dick says I wouldn't breath air if they supplied it. He's probably right.

I flip through the local paper. The lead story is the Museum theft. Same as yesterday. I consider calling Cachiru. Or even ‘El Hombre Veridad.’ Give the natives a thrill. No, this is a vacation. We are here to relax. Besides, I'm sure the Minister of Justice has matters well in hand. And J'onn has my number. Under the fold? Trade sanctions for Santa Prisca and murder at the Hilton just down the coast. A spectacularly bloody affair, if the writer is to be trusted. Not that I don’t discount at least ten percent for South American tabloid journalism. The Amoza Advocate may be the local paper of record, but it’s no Daily Planet. Still...I make a note of the name. Simon Templar. Is that the European contract thief? I had thought Templar was retired, but? No matter. I force myself to relax. The police will handle matters. The local Minister of Justice is no Jim Gordon, but he’s honest enough and his cops are reasonably competent. They know who to call if they need help. Not that the local police won’t find whoever is responsible without League assistance. For the most part criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot - and not that bright. 

I roll over to watch Dick, who is rapidly destroying a group of college kids in a game of beach volleyball. They seem to be enjoying their defeat.

That is Dick’s great strength, He is just so.... lovable. Not just my opinion. In this, it is just possible that I might be biased. But no, his colleagues in the Titans, Young Justice, even my own occasional allies in the JLA - everyone is delighted to be with Dick. But he is, quite frankly, great company. I smile as he slams the ball just over the net for another point.

That young blond on his team is no help. She'd rather fall against Dick then hit the ball. Not that I blame her. It just proves her good taste. The men like him too. Even when they are so clearly outclassed, they are still just delighted to play. And Dick is such a gracious winner. Always a smile, always a complement for a move well done.

He's a natural leader; handsome, charismatic, brilliant... 

Stop that.

I discipline myself to focus on the business reports my local agent has delivered. Not much new information on the Hidalgo Trading Company. They have a good reputation. They are considered an excellent employer. They pay their bills on time. But no one seems to know much of what they do.

I now have pictures of the board members, and rather truncated biographies. Almost as if they were deliberately staying out of sight.

Neither of the two Generals had major military careers; although some would argue that any career that earns a star should be considered major. They were in active duty for the Second World War, and in the reserves afterwards. No sign of a recall to duty. At least none on record. With what these men did, that may mean nothing. General Renwick made his money in heavy construction, primarily bridges. He's an expert at reinforced concrete. General Roberts holds several patents in electronics, and may have earned that star for his inventions rather than his field leadership. Both are men of flawless reputations. Oracle is right. I wouldn't think of them as criminals. Normally.

I messengered the scraps of feather to Oracle, but it's too early to expect a report. I'll assume they came from the Rio Chak for now.

Yesterday was a stretch. Very much 'Bruce Wayne'. Not to mention the hassle with the hotel manager. We decided to explain the furniture by not explaining. I settled on an outraged call of complaint. Why not? Whatever happened, we were very clearly somewhere else at the time. I have no idea how he'll explain it to his boss, but that's not my problem. Then he called hotel security and they called the police and..... it was two in the morning before everyone left and let me get to bed.

Today has been better. I told everyone I wanted to 'rest'. And Oracle has promised to hook me up with a capable guide.

A movement at the edge of the beach catches my eye. If my judgment serves me, that must be him. I sit up as he approaches. Diana also sees the newcomer and moves out to cover me. Just in case.

Dick breaks off his game and signals a waiter. Seems natural. He must be thirsty. And the glass of water gives him time to check both me and my visitor.

A rather well built young man. Tan, but not by nature. Perhaps European. Not too young. I'd guess in his thirties. Sun lines make it hard to judge his age. Brown hair, but sun bleached. Conventional clothes. Shirt and khakis. Well-worn fedora in his left hand. He'll pass unnoticed by the hotel tourists. Not by the staff. I can see them look up as he passes. But they aren't worried. He's known. His shirt moves against his torso as he sits centered on the adjacent beach chair. He's packing. Back belt holster. The whip interests me more. The last thing I need is another Selina in my life.

He stops two feet from my chair. “Mr. Wayne."

"Dr. Jones."

He nods, but does not offer his hand. Still uncertain of this deal. Good.

"I understand you are looking for a guide."

"I am considering a.... journey.... down the Rio Chak."

"Several tourist boats go to Pachicoc."

"But I don't." I notice Jones’s eyes widen slightly as he catches my meaning. "I want to see places a bit more... inland."

"So I'm told." He is judging me, and not quite convinced by what he sees." Look, Wayne. You come highly recommended or I wouldn't be talking to you. But I don't take jobs for people who don't tell me what they are after, I don't rob anyone who doesn't deserve it, and I *don't* kill, so..."

I cut him off. "I think we can do business."

Dick’s opponents are understandably disappointed when he declines another game, but even they understand that 'business comes first’. A cute brunette on the other team slips him a napkin as he leaves. Probably her room number. I give her credit for trying.

With a signal to the waiter we adjourn to the suite.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

He must call ahead, because another waiter is waiting when we reach the door.

Dinah orders iced teas all around, and there is the usual round of introductions before we settle down to business.

"This may be a bit of a.... different job." Different for Bruce Wayne, at any rate. "I don't want anyone killed. Or even robbed for that matter. As for what we'll be after? At this point, I honestly don't know."

I unfold the map I have brought with me, spreading it out so he can read it easily.

"I have an ... interest... in the actions of a local group."

I can see him think politics. No chance. I get enough of that with the JLA.

"You've heard of the Hidalgo Trading Company?" A nod. Of course he has. "But can you tell me exactly what they trade? Or where?" 

Not the question he was expecting.

"Neither, it would appear, can anyone on the surface of planet Earth."

Or off it. But I cannot add that.

"They import nothing. They export nothing. And they seem to make quite a profit doing so." I pull over the file. "Their offices in Metropolis and London are shells. Little more then a post drop. The Central City plant is merely a location for banking and clerical work. Plus a comfortable office for Thomas Roberts to do nothing in."

"Not my business, business. I only deal with it when it's at least a millennia dead."

I ignore that. I know what his skills are.

"All decisions. All activity - for whatever purpose that activity is intended - comes by wire from Hap’osil, Hidalgo."

I point to the map on the table. Hap'osil is on the map, but barely so. Beyond it is the mountain country that appears on no maps whatsoever.

"My intention is to go there - or as close as possible to get while undetected - and discover exactly what those decisions involve. Who makes them, and why. And what true motive is behind the Hidalgo Shipping Company."

He holds out his hand.

"As you said, Mr. Wayne. I think we can do business."

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

It's two days before we can get on the road. One for supplies, and one wasted putting out fires at Wayne Industries. I come to town, and no one can make a decision for them self. It's times like this I appreciate Lucius Fox.

Thank God I have Dick to handle the important arrangements. He finds a hum vee, charts out our road, and gets all the permissions required to get 'students' such as ourselves into the restricted indigenous areas. Not that we wouldn't go without it, but it's always better to follow the law - where one can.

Dinah works with Dr. Jones to rent a boat for the voyage down the Rio Chak. He seems familiar with doing so without letting anyone know our true destination. For the record, we are student volunteers joining a survey on rare birds.

We settle our final details over dinner, which reveals two things. First, that Dr. Jones was not actually raised in a barn. Despite all his assumed gruffness, the man’s manners are smooth enough when he is motivated. In this instance, Dinah is the motivation. Second, that he does own a suit. One fine enough to rather wreck the ‘Jungle Jim’ image Jones seems so determined to cultivate. No matter. Dinah seems to be bearing up well under the disillusion.

We are lingering over wine and cheese when Dick pulls out his depressingly thick file. Permits and travel authorizations. I give a passing calculation to how that paper would translate - ounce for ounce - against hundred dollar bills. Quick memory check. Dick does tell me such things, even though I seldom listen. As I thought. Annoyingly close to a one-to-one ratio.

Dr. Jones smiles as he looks over our permits. I grant, we are an unlikely group of 'graduate students', but a few dollars was enough to persuade the local Minister of Indigenous Peoples of our educational intentions.

"Not that anyone believes that, Mr. Wayne," Jones comments, tucking the permits into his pocket.

"What do they believe?"

Jones nods his head at the wait staff. "They say that you have come for the Tongue of the Jaguar."

"And why would I do that?" I ask.

"So you can kill the Jaguar God and rule over the City of Gold."

 

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Road Trip

I have slept well, unfortunately. The combination of an active day and the warm presence of Dick Grayson beside me. Perhaps we should have passed on the moonlight ski-sailing. Not that it wasn’t... fun. I allow myself a few moments to compare that word with my memories of Dick by moonlight, and feel a slight yearning for telepathy. Language is really regrettably limited.

Not that Dick’s suggestion seemed like a bad idea at the time. We both did need the exercise. And Dick does deserve some time to just...be young. And this is a vacation. But...

Stop that!, I command myself.

It is not Dick's fault that I overslept. I know what travel can do to my internal clock, and could have meditated. Or asked for a call from the front desk. Or even set an alarm. None of which occurred to me last night when we came in from skiing. When I had Dick damp and laughing sprawled across a bed. When I had his lips on mine and his strong young body laying over me. Or I could, and this is a thought so foolish that I don’t even bother to rebuke myself, have gone back to my own room and gotten a good nights sleep. Or at least more then the four hours I ended with last night.

And I could beam up to the Tower and go line dancing with Orin and Eel. Which is just about as probable as the thought of my voluntarily leaving Dick when he’s in a frisky mood. Or less. I consider the point. Definitely less. Clark has been able to talk me into line dancing. With Lois. Once. Even Alfred couldn’t persuade me to give up Dick.

Dick. Dickie. My eyes wander over his body, shadowy in the darkened room. The moon is down now, and only the faint reflection of the few lights beginning in the allow me to trace the prefect lines of his back. Tempted to delay, I allow myself one soft stroke of his gleaming shoulders before firming my touch into a shake.

“Morning, Dick.”

He blinks, half-considers, the settles back to sleep. 

I turn on the lights.

He pulls a pillow over his head.

“0:500. One hour to departure.”

I miss whatever he mutters back. Sounds like 'vaasion'.

“We leave, or we stay here and take the garden tour with Mrs. Alvarez.” That gets him moving. And they say *I'm* spooky. 

I head back to my own room to shower and dress. We'll meet in the living room when everyone is ready.

I reach the living room first. Twenty minutes for Dick to stroll in, grumpy but dressed. Dinah seems chipper, but she takes five minutes more. We drink our coffee in silence, then head out.

Dr. Jones is waiting by the car, munching on a chorizo and egg burrito and watching two of the hotel staff finish the loading. I give it a glance. Good job. Food and water on top, rifles to the front. Invisible, but accessible. Just in case.

We leave the hotel at dawn. Even though the countryside is quiet, the roads are not safe in the dark. There are always bandits. At least in Santa Amoza it’s only the bandits. In Santa Prisca you worry more about the cops.

Miguel Alvarez has come over to see us off, although he'd rather talk me out of the whole thing. Still, he has some useful information. “Here is my cousins address. He has a estancia up towards San Tomas Xecul, and he would welcome you.”

“If we have any trouble,” I reassure him, “I won't hesitate to call.”

“And here.” He hand me a pistol in a shoulder harness. I hate guns, but given local customs it's wiser if all the men in the party are seen to carry. “Take this with you. It is my own favorite pistol. Very popular against bandits.”

I thank him gravely. It is easier to go along then to argue. No one says I have to fire it. And Dick should appreciate my tolerant attitude. The improbability of that thought puts a definite smile on my face. From Sr. Alvarez’s delighted expression, he clearly assumes the pleasure is for his gift. Let it go. I have no reason to correct him. 

It takes some adjustment to get the straps to fit, but I work it out. I'll wear it until we are out of town, then stash it in the glove compartment. That's just as handy, and a lot more comfortable.

Dick smiles as he comes up. I know he will tease me about his later. "Ready to roll. Time to load on in."

I leave Alvarez with a handshake. “Thank you, Miguel. You have been a great help.”

“Este caulelso, Sr. Wayne.” He leaves shaking his head slightly.

Be careful? I always am.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Outside the city the pavement varies from dreadful to nonexistent. Our hum vee is well sprung, but it's also heavily loaded. Two vehicles would have been more comfortable, but a convoy is always a slower target. 

I am not worried about the incompetent local banditry, but the explanation of their attempt would take up valuable time. Better to avoid the necessity for now.

Dinah takes the front seat. This close to the city the map should be sufficient. Later we'll need guides, but Dr. Jones assures us they won't be difficult to find. I accept that. If not, we can navigate by positional satellite. We are all linked through Dinah, and Oracle is on standby. Not that we should need her for a river cruise.

I take the back to catch up on some sleep.

It takes an hour to leave behind the lights of the city. Out here the countryside is green, sometimes with crops by more often with pampas grass and wild peppers. The land is rich here, but the people lack the tools to manage it well.

Memo: Talk to Clark. What is being done for farm education?

We pass a mercader pushing a load of pots. Dick asks Jones to slow down so we can offer the man a ride.

“Vamos a Santa Balama de Vit, y entonces a rio.” Dick calls out to him.

That brings forth a big smile. “Voy al mercardo en Santa Balama.”

Dick waves the man on board. “Nostros le daremos un paseo.”

Jones stops the car. We have gained a passenger.

With Dick's help the man ties his load to the roof and happily jumps inside. A good sign, I suppose, if the locals are unafraid of strangers. Fortunately the windows are open. “Soy Ramon Quesada.”

Dick waves at us. “Soy Richard Grayson, y esta mis amigos, Bruce, Dinah, y Indy.”

“?Va usted al rio a la caza?” He thinks we are hunters.

“No, somos estudiantes americanos que van alli a pajaros de conde.”

That gets a laugh. 'Estudiantes' is the local cover for anything from politics to drugs. It even on occasion refers to people who go to school.

Quesada is a bit of a local shaman. That interests Dr. Jones. Dick? I think he’s interested in everybody. At least the man speaks decent Spanish, and keeps us entertained with a flow of local gossip.

Even out here, the hot news is the museum theft. Quesada’s theory is that it is Aztec royalists have stolen the dagger to prevent the return of Mayan power. If his pots sell well, he plans to buy a chicken and add his own sacrifice to the mix. On which side, I can’t quite make out. I would laugh, except that it is no more improbable than the political conspiracies of my supposedly more sophisticated business associates back in Ciuad Santa Amoza.

Dr. Jones seems willing to take him seriously. At least, he asks him to repeat several times the names of the local deities. Which confirms my opinion of liberal arts majors.

Still, it does pass the time.

By nine o'clock - local breakfast time, we reach the mountain town of Santa Balams de Vit. The usual crumbling church and hard mud square. Cantina, clinic, post office - what passes for civilization.

Tomorrow is market day, but with our help our passenger has arrived a day early. He decides this gives him the opportunity to set up early as well. The tavern keeper objects, and the local constabulary is called to settle the matter. Along with Father Juan Valdez, the local priest.

Dr. Jones buys fruit and gossip while Dick and Dinah and I do the tourist bit.

Father Valdez offers us coffee and a tour of his building. Perhaps I should say a prayer… of thanks. For what? That the mayor is out of town, so at least I won’t have to tour the city as well. Jean-Paul would call that thanks for small graces. Fortunately, no one has placed the last name - yet. So it’s just the usual rich-tourist spiel and not the World Bank full court press.

Actually, the tour is interesting. Years of sermons have evidently taught the good padre how to tell a tale. He knows this area, and he connects the locals with more significant national events by way of ‘this man’s father’ or ‘her sister’s son’. The church reflects better times, with some decent murals. Someone had talent, and it's a shame to see his work vanish into a mess of fly spots and paint chips.

Memo: Find out what preservation groups are active locally.

Interesting theme, though. The usual saints but also - I move closer to make out the details in the dim light - a haloed cat, sitting on top on a pyramid. That wasn't in my book of Children's Bible Stories. I'm getting the impression that this Jaguar God is a bigger deal than Mrs. Alvarez was willing to admit. I ask about it.

“Madre Santa.” Father Valdez crosses himself. “That is Santa Balama la Chel. A local saint, you understand. She was to be the bride of Olmec, but she was a Christian. So she stole the jaguar's pelt. Without it, he could not take her to Xibalba. So she stayed in the mountains all her days, doing good works and healing the sick.” The priest smiles, then shrugs. “An amusing story, No es?. I doubt it is very historical, but the local people, they believe in la Santa.” He shakes his head. “It is not a wise thing to argue with people’s beliefs.”

I snap a few pictures. Just in case. I have been hearing a bit too much about this Jaguar God for my comfort. A call to Oracle might be in line.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

The local bananas are excellent - once carefully washed and peeled. Dr. Jones assures me the local beer is too. I'll take his word on it.

The trouble between our merchant friend and the cantina owner being settled to no ones satisfaction - as most such things are - the policeman decides it is his duty to check an out the visiting American VIP’s. Or at least to impress them with his diligence. More so when he learns that Dick is also an officer.

“?Tan, usted cuidara de a nuestros visitantes americanos?”, he asks Dick.

I smile at that. He thinks Dick is here to take care of me? Good idea. I've at least been hoping that Dick would take care of me. With the interruptions we've had, I can't say it's quite worked out as often as I had hoped. Still, there is always tonight.

“Si peudo. Entiendo que la policia de Santa Amoza hace a trabajo myy bueno. ?Piensa usted que tendremos la problema?” Dick is flattering in his inquiry, but it's true that, by South American standards, the local police are admirable.

“Hacemos nuestro mejor, Oficial Grayson, pero aun con nuestros mejores esfuerzos que el campo puese ser a veces peligroso. Apenas hace algunos dias otros visitante americamo, un Sr. Kit Walker, fue asalto por bandidos en este muy camino. Tres de ellos.” The constable holds up three fingers to emphasize the number of thieves. “Afortunado el fue armado. Los bandidos estan en la carcel de Santa Lucia aun ahora!” He finishes with a broad gesture to emphasize the scope of the crime.

My sympathy is limited for this Kit Walker, if in fact the man did face an attempted robbery. More likely he brought trouble on himself. These 'adventure' tourists would be wiser to stay at home. Or at least back at the Pearl Beach hotel. And to leave the local girls alone. I doubt our larger party is at much risk. And, of course, I *do* have Dick to protect me, as the constable has so kindly pointed out. I am quite sure Dinah will enjoy sharing that line with Barbara the next time they chat.

The local officer is finishing up. “Eso es bueno. Yo le prestaria un oficial comp una escolta a San Dimas, pero son cortos en el personel.”

“Grasias.” Dick smiles. And he even means it. Dick is pleased even with ineffective kindness.

“Es nada. Pero ellos seguros si ellos lo tienen.”

“So, Dick?” I comment as we enter the car. “You are going to keep me safe from bandits?” Sometimes I cannot resist the chance to tease him a bit.

“Hey,” he snaps back, “I could always go back and ask for the *local* cop.”

That brings a laugh from Dinah. She knows us well. Too well, I sometimes think, but I would still rather be with a friend then have to evade some hired watchdog.

It's time to shift drivers. I'm rested, so I take the wheel. Dr. Jones moves over to navigate. Since Dr. Jones is supposedly an expert on the past, I ask him about this Balama.

“The corn goddess, with a touch of escaped Aztec sacrifice thrown in for good measure.” He seems quite confident on his subject. “Both the Aztec and the Maya practiced human sacrifice, but in for different reasons and by very different means. The Aztec generally flayed their victims. That's the bit about the skin. And they were generally willing to offer up prisoners and slaves. That's the important part. Balama would never have qualified for a Mayan altar. They preferred to sacrifice royalty. People who deserved to be Gods.”

Fascinating, to be sure, although not a prospect I can view with an archeologist’s enthusiasm.

“That's the real local religion, Mr. Wayne,” Jones continues. “They may build churches, but take the warab'alya just as seriously. Most of the time, the locals don't bother telling them apart.” He waves a hand to encompass the neighborhood. “Which is what makes this whole dagger thing so dangerous. One wacko from the mountains, and the local police could have folks chopping out their neighbors hearts to bring about the return of Christ.” A cynical snort at that. He's seen weirder, it implies. “Trust me, you don't want to see that.”

The road down the mountain is worse, and conversation falters as I keep my mind on the driving. It's lunchtime before we reach San Dismas. 

It's not much of a city. A farm town at the edge of Bosque Grande. But it does have a gas station and a decent restaurant. Just across from the police station, which Dick points out as a recommendation. He is convinced cops always find a good source for cheap food. Dr. Jones recommends the fried iguana, which is excellent with a side of deep fried chili peppers. Very hot, but the thick local arapas cuts the burn. I pass on the coca leaf tea. It may be legal, but it's too close to a drug for my comfort.

I’m finished eating, settling back with my coffee, when Dick jumps up. “Hey!” he shouts. Then he's out the back door without another word.

 

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Cowboy in the Jungle

Dick’s sudden exit surprises me. Not that I question it. I'm facing the iron grill that passes for a window, and see nothing, but he must have a reason. I throw some bills on the table and follow.

I reach the street just in time to see our ride pulling away - with Dick on the rear bumper. I tap my wrist knife. Damn, can't risk a throw with him there. Not that it would do much good against those tires.

Nothing to do but watch as Dick vaults over the car roof to land on the windshield. Good leap, but if the thief's armed....? Apparently not. Dick spins around for a double kick straight through the driver's window. My view is blocked by luggage, but it must connect, because suddenly the car is headed for the police station wall.

A bad speed for impact. Will l he have room to take control before...**ScreeeThrrummmp**. Someone must have hit the breaks, because the car skids to a stop. Just not soon enough. I catch up with the rear fender seconds after the hood bangs into the adobe.

“Dick?” I try to keep my concern out of my voice. Dick hates it when I 'hover'.

“It's cool.” He leaps out of the passenger side door, not even winded from the 'fight'. The would-be thief tumbles to the dirt behind him.

Naturally, the noise and impact have emptied the station of its retinue of cops, and it is a bit of a wild scene before Dick gets thing straightened out.

Dick steps over the fallen foe, holding out his hand. “Oficial?”

“Jose Martin Lopez, el Jefe de la Policia para San Dimas.” The man is understandably concerned, but willing to listen.

“Soy Oficial Grayson, BHPD.” Dick pulls the badge folder from his pocket.

The sight of Dick's badge brings a round of back slaps and handshakes. Clearly their fellow-officer is the hero today.

“Este vehivulo pertenece a Sr. Wayne.” Dick points to me as I try to look like the victim. “El y Senorita Lance y yo mismo Le manejan a Profesor Jones al rio a la ayuda el con su inspeccion de pajaros nativos.” Birds? I thought we were counting fish? Close enough. “Yo no se por que este hombre tratado a la campana lejos consigo.” No idea. That's the important part.

The Police Chief addresses me in careful English. “This is a rough area, Sr. Wayne. Many foreigners and speculators come to make their fortune. Not all of them are honest.”

Foreigner? The man on the ground looks very local to my eyes. Strong Indian features. 'City' clothes. He could be from any of the 'modern' mountain tribes.

The Chief continues, “You are wise to hire a man like Officer Grayson to defend you and your lady friend.”

That's the second time I've been told that in as many hours. Not that I would object - in theory. I agree, then turn the conversation to more useful ground. “Is this man a know felon?”

Chief Lopez waves off the question. “I am sure when we call Santa Lucia we will find that he has a record. Such men usually do.”

An answer which is no answer, but about all a tourist can insist upon. Still, two attempted robberies of American tourists in a few days may indicate a problem that didn't appear in the national crime statistics. Best have Oracle check up on whether crime is suddenly up, or overall reporting has been down.

While his boss is chatting, one of the burlier policemen hoists the driver over one shoulder and carted him of into custody. I leave them to it, and concentrate on our ride. Intact, I think, except for where the front fender has punctured a tire. We have a spare. I'd prefer a replacement.

Dr. Jones has strolled up. With his help I shift the front grill away from the wall. The Chief notices, snaps an order, and our efforts are replaced by four of the local men. Another unlatches the spare from the back. While they change the tire, I call Oracle to see about a replacement. Pueblo Molino, just twenty miles down the road.

Normally in South America an incident like this would mean a delay of days. Not today. Chief Lopez takes Dick's number and promises to call if they have any questions, and that is it. Grayson charisma strikes again. The waitress even packs up his desert, so he can eat it on the road.

Dinah takes the wheel so Dick can 'recover' from the excitement. Bull. It's just an excuse to let him finish his desert. It's a clear road, so I give Jones the front seat. After all, I didn't get desert either. So I'll help myself to some of Dick's.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Pueblo Molino is the headquarters for a major timber plantation. Lucius has been suggesting we invest in farmed woods. I'm still looking into the ecological implications, but it might be a good idea. Wood products have a hot future. The lumbermen use hum-vee's for back-country work. The head mechanic has several spare tires and swears he is delighted to give us one. Fortunately Sr. Arturo Gomez is out of town, so we don't have to waste too much time on formalities. 

That is rather a surprise, given the effort Gomez’s secretary put in last week trying to set up a meeting during this trip. Arturo Gomez really is determined to expand his influence in this area, and he clearly sees a strategic alliance between his roads and WayneTech phones as a way to do that. Because, given control of the flow of both goods and information? I shake my head. Not in our interests to back an outsider for that much power. Still, knowing what Gomez has to gain, I am rather surprised that any other needs could pull him away. After another moments thought, I amend that to pleasantly surprised.

Martin Juarez, the plantation manager, greets us instead. An amiable enough man. We have coffee with him while his men replace our tire. The manager warns me against river pirates. Even here the news of the theft is making his workers nervous. He has posted guards on the compound – more for his men’s reassurance than from any worry that such petty thieves would attack a major local industry. That, and because it is better business than letting his men arm themselves. Intelligent man, if a bit provincial. I'll keep Juarez in mind.

Juarez offers us a tour of the plant while the tire is found. The others accept, but I decline. I have several messages on the machine, and this may be my last clear chance to contact the home office. His secretary shows me an office. Lucius has paged me on some operations, and he wants’ signatures before I disappear for a week. That's fine. I download the documents, sign them, and fax them back. Hopefully that will take care of things until I get back.

I catch up with the others at the end of their tour.

Dick has hit it off with the lumber boss, and we have an invitation to a baptism on the way back. Sounds like fun. There's a good chance we'll make it. Just in case, I'll have Shondra express out a suitable baby present. Maybe one of those cute little dresses? Shondra can call Salamanca to check on the local standards.

The lumber boss also gives us a better map of the timber roads, which are constantly being recut as the operation moves, and he introduces a local man as a guide. Rafael Zac is going to a settlement near San Tomas anyway, so he's glad of the ride. It also mean he has a motivation for getting us there. His sister's wedding. Raf was out in the brush when his cousin Tomas caught a ride with the previous vehicle through here. Big horse trailer belonging to our robbery-prone fellow tourist. Seems Mr. Walker not only insists on playing trail-ride through the rain forest, he has to bring in his own steed. And his dog. Nouveau riche twit.

Dick takes the wheel. I lean back for a nap. This will be a long day before we reach the river, and I am not certain of our welcome.

By six o'clock enter Ciudad de la Selva. Not much here beyond storehouses for the local coffee and bananas. We buy gas at the general store, and give up on dinner. We have food in the truck. Given the local options, a cold supper will have to suffice.

There is farm truck headed up to Poco Selva. That mean we lose our guide. Fortunately the river is a popular destination, so we pick up another. Vouched for by the first. Also fortunately ours is a large vehicle. I'm not sure I'd cherish the smell of our company. The man himself is not bad, but the pig he brings with him? 

He's headed for the village of San Thomas, perhaps forty mile further in. Two days walk or two hours as a drive. About the last spot of 'civilization' before the river. One of his sisters is getting married, and the pig is a wedding present. Well, at least it's not a pet. I remember one party in Metropolis where one of those beasts got a seat at the table. When this one joins the table, it will be on a platter. That’s something.

We reach San Tomas about an hour before sunset - which gives us a good excuse to decline the mayor’s hospitality. If it had been our passenger I might have been persuaded. The wedding party sounded like fun, and after two hours in close quarters I do have a wish to see that pig roasted. But the wedding is four days away, and we have only two weeks. So we leave a bottle of the local liquor as a gift for the bride and make our excuses.

From there it’s a straight shot to the river. Relatively speaking.

Half an hour down the road we arrive at Porto Chakpac. A twist in the rivers edge marked by four huts, an open 'warehouse', and a pier. A nothing, but a nothing with a bar. The sound of our vehicle draws our welcoming committee from the local 'cantina'. In this case, that means a shed just strong enough to keep the wharf rats from strolling in and stealing it bare. They would have to be sober enough to pry up a window, and from the look of them that's a rare occurrence. The proprietor smiles, but I'm glad we're armed. Fortunately, we won't have to stay here long.

Our transport is waiting.

The Amoza River Queen.

 

 

END CHAPTER FIVE


	6. The Captain and the Kid

The Amoza River Queen. The name is painted on the wheel deck in florid script, bright red picked out with gold and blue. A full classic Mississippi River steam boat. Not one of the largest, but still, luxury transportation by Chak River standards. More so since Barbara has arranged a charter, so we should have the boat to ourselves. Well, all to ourselves except for a few 'emergency' deliveries that the dock man assures us are a matter of life and death - or at least local domestic happiness. I'd rather stay on schedule, but I'm realistic. As long as we can avoid unwanted passengers, I can tolerate a few 'local deliveries'.

It’s a better ship then I had expected. Well maintained despite the local climate, which is hard on the paint. The technology may be obsolete, but the wood had worn well. The brass work may not have gleamed, but it was solid. 

Captain Allnut is a capable looking man. Tall and rangy. He gives me a quick one over and a hearty handshake. "I'm American too. Ex-pat from the Bronx. Been here since before the Great War. First wife was British." He smiles at the memory.

"Tough bird." I sense that's his highest complement "Worked the river with me until '92. "Needed help after she died. I took on Greg Ch'oc as a partner." He waves forward a much younger man clad only in work stained denim.

I shake hands with the young native. I'd put him in his late twenties. Tattoos make is hard to be certain. Five four, which is tall for the jungle tribes. Strong more then bulked. Thick calluses on both hands. A good man to have on our side. No telling if he speaks English. He doesn't seem to speak at all.

"Married his sister," the Captain adds by way of conclusion.

"Welcome on board, Mr. Wayne." A female voice addresses me from behind. " Your people?" 'Mrs. Captain' is small and dark and shockingly tattooed, but her English is (ignoring the Bronx accent) excellent. And she is in her own way, no doubt, a very tough bird.

We do introductions all around. She takes one look at Dinah and I can tell I am on her list for evil intentions. Maybe some of the locals are more Catholic then Dr. Jones suspects. No problem. Around Dinah I can most certainly keep my hands to myself.

It's near dark when we board, so after a brief tour of the boat she sends us down ship to settle in. 

I notice that, while with the men our hostess just points to the rooms up on the balcony floor, Dinah gets escorted to her door. Confirmed. We are on old-time Catholic turf. Maybe I should have gone with Jean-Paul after all.

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The cabins are surprisingly luxurious. Or maybe not so surprising. The River Queen was built for the Mississippi trade back in 1896. The cabins reflect that in their carved furniture and satin wallpaper. Faded, perhaps, but still showing the signs of past elegance.

I flip back the sheets. Not just curious. A mattress can hold some unpleasant surprises in this part of the world. Rope bed. Good. I test the tension. Firm. Should be stable, even under weight.

'Mrs. Captain' is a good housekeeper. The sheets are clean. So are the glass lanterns on the kerosene lamps. And the basin water smells fresh, which means it was boiled rather than just scooped out of the river. Even the chamber pot under the bed looks clean. Not that I'd wish to use it. There are overdeck privies which we can use unless there is a piranha sighting.

Dinah has been discretely placed in one connecting cabin, and Dick in the other. Dr. Jones has the corner cabin across. All linked with inside transom doors. Necessary in the stifling heat and humility, and also convenient. Dinah's is locked. I was so right about Mrs. Captain and her suspicions.

I pick the lock. Just in case.

I trust the Captain - within reason. But only within reason.

Ignoring my suitcase, I stroll over to Dick's cabin. Much the same. Just a porthole on the other side. He's busy unpacking the few things he will need for this part of the trip. All fresh T-shirts, I notice. He must be anticipating a rough trip if he won't risk the old ones. 

"Dinah seems quite taken with Dr. Jones." Not that it matters. Her loyalty is beyond question. Just making conversation.

"Which is one count against him, given her luck with men." A bit snappy. He must be tired from the drive.

"On the other hand", I reply, " if she's sleeping with him at least we'll know where he is." Dick would deny it, but I like to think I look for the positive.

"You don't trust him?" OK, you don't trust anyone, but...?"

"I trust you."

"Me and Tim and Alfred - and maybe Babs and Dinah"

"Of course I trust Barbara!" She has always been a bit of a sore spot between us. Barbara is...very fond…of Dick. And...Dick has always been...very fond of her. Not that he shouldn't be, of course. She's a wonderful person. I'm fond of her myself. Still, there have been times...... I put that out of my mind.

I move the conversation to a less dangerous ground. "Dr. Jones has a reputation for fortuitous finds." If one is being polite about it. Others have called him a tomb robber or worse. "I'm not certain why he chose to accept this job. We are not looking for Mayan ruins. His jungle knowledge is useful to us, but are we useful to him?"

"You're paying him. That's useful. And he'll probably hit you up for a grant. " Dick leans back. It's been a long day. " We'll keep an eye on him." He is asleep before I can say another word.

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Dawn finds us well into the jungle. We have traveled all night, and made surprising good time. It was not quiet, like I would think. The jungle has a noise of its own. And the churning of the paddle wheel adds a constant background tone.

But at dawn everything falls silent.

I am awake. I have never slept well outside my city. Here, even the scent is strange, and I can find no comfort. It is too early to bother the others, so I slip out on the balcony to watch the landscape as we float by.

Perhaps I should exercise, but for now I let myself absorb the scene.

Bright birds cross overhead, flocks of parrots and macaws as close and common as pigeons in Gotham Park. A flashing glimpse of a monkey, flipping through high branches. In my world, only people move like that. The tight green comes right down to the water, venturing in like a swimmer in some places.

In the distance a wolf howls. A wolf? More likely a feral dog. Whatever the sound, there are no wolves native to this area.

I gaze deep into the forest canopy, thick with twisting growth. In its desperate vigor, it has spread up and out, trying to cover even the wide waters of the river. Day has come, and soon the sky will brighten, but down here we will still be in shadow.

Ivy would be at home here. It's not my place. It's not Gotham. But it is, in its way, as beautiful. And it is, most assuredly, just as deadly.

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About an hour later our non-stop charter makes its first stop. Coal is scarce here, so the River Queen is burning wood. Scrap mostly, culled from the lumber sites. I concede it's an efficient use of resources. But wood is bulky, so we will have to make frequent stops early on to fill up the hoppers.

The wood we get, and also fresh fruit, eggs and meat, but there is still some problem.

Captain Allnut jumps down to talk to the deck men.

?Donde nuestra gasolina est?"

Annoying. They are not loading the expected gasoline for the excursion boat.

"No hay gasolina."

"Fui dicho....." 

The deck man cuts him off, apologetic but certain.

"Si, se entrego." A wave of his hands, replacing argument. "Si, estaba elasidero activado para usted."

He makes the universal gesture for 'what can you do?'.

"Los Hombres in un barco vineron aqui antes del alba. Ellos se desperaron al jefe, los abtovo fuers de su cama. Ellos dijeron que ellos necesitaran los gasolina."

Men in a boat, tough enough to wake up the dock master. More interesting.

"No es sabio a discute con tales hombres."

No, it is not wise to argue with such men. We will miss the gasoline, but we will manage. I have gained something more valuable. Information. It would seem we are not the only travelers the river.

 

END CHAPTER SIX

 

[ Cookie for anyone who can identify where I got the Captain from. ]


	7. Death Rides the River

Just before noon we come to the burning village.

I could tell by the Captains face that this was a disaster, although he tried to keep it from us.

My first though is of forest fire, but those are rare here. The constant moisture and avid scavengers eliminate dry brush in the canopy, and the ground itself is surprisingly empty. It is hard for the residents to find firewood for their own uses, much less to supply a natural conflagration. Housewives, even more then timber men, are the threats to the local ecology.

The leaf cover is so solid that it shuts out the sky. It is all but impossible to see smoke. It was the smell that reached us first.

I first I thought it was just the cooking fires, ubiquitous in this part of the world. No village would be complete without a vat of boiling huitlacoche. But as we drew closer I realized that the smell was.... wrong. And then - oh lord - we were close enough to see.

"Pull off." Captain Allnut called to the wheelhouse. "Get us out of here."

I touched his arm, attracting his attention without involving his men. If they see me challenge him, he will turn stubborn. "No Captain." I keep my voice low. "I don't see any movement. The threat is passed."

He assesses my judgment as well as my word. He must trust what he sees, for he gestures me to continue.

"How good are your men?" I ask.

"Toughest damn crew on the river, but that don't mean..."

"Can they shoot?" Not my only question, but the one I can ask and he will answer.

"For damn sure, but..."

I know what he will say. Rifles are expensive. If his crew could afford to go armed, they would be doing so. I answer the unspoken. "We have extra rifles. Issue them to your men. Jones and I and...can you spare two of your men? We'll check it out."

That gets his cooperation. I continue.

"Dinah will stay on board, and Dick with her." Let them think Dick was here to guard the girl. Dinah could guard herself. I needed Dick watching the Captain to make sure our personal floating hotel didn't float away without me. I think Dr. Jones would have preferred to stay on board; partly for Dinah and partly to dodge trouble. But given direct instructions he couldn't see a way to refuse. Not without looking a coward in Dinah's eyes - and in the Captains.

"I'll leave Greg for the ship and go in with you. My wife can take the helm." A few words in the local dialect and his crew was in motion. "We'll take Jose." He pointed out one of the crew, a middle-aged man in a faded t-shirt. "He's Spanish. Locals get too near this, there could be problems."

I understood what he didn't want to say. The local tribes were not known for their peaceable natures. Or even their love of rational debate. If a 'hostile' tribesman was seen at a slaughter - even afterwards - the curses and blood vengeance could continue for years.

I accept him with, "As long as he can shoot."

"Good with a gun. Even better with a knife." Jose smiled broadly at the complement, showing off his several gold teeth. Local status symbol. He must be good at something to afford those. And he understands English. That could come in handy. The Doctor and I speak Spanish, but still.

Greg and Dick go to uncrate the rifles. Pump actions purchased in Santa Amoza. Not the best, but the best this crew can reliably know how to handle.

I return to the cabin to slip on my kevlar under my jeans. Not that I'm certain I'll need it. The village does seem quiet, and from the scent of the smoke the main fire is at least an hour past. But I prefer to be prepared. Clark isn't the only boy scout.

Dick comes in as I finish. He's had the same idea.

"Captain legit?", he asks. 

Not a real doubt, just pre-fight nerves. I answer anyway. "Probably. He's got a good reputation. But still keep an eye on 'Mrs.' and her brother."

Dick nods. Not that he needs my instruction. He knows his work.

By the time I return to deck Captain Allnut is ready. Two crewmen have already winched the rowboat down to the water, and dropped a rope ladder for us. Allnut is just finishing up his instructions to his wife, with Dinah keeping close if unobserved watch. I glance at her. She gives the signal. OK, everything clear.

I gesture for the Captain to go first. He hands me his rifle as he descends the ladder. I return it once he is seated, then hand him mine as I repeat his procedure. Dr. Jones follows. A bit clumsier, but he keeps his gun on his shoulder. Paranoid. I like that.

Jose drops down last. He's refused a rifle, preferring instead a pair of long knives. Given the jungle, it could be a good choice.

The greatest risk is at the dock. We are all in one place, and a perfect target for a sniper from cover. But - nothing happens. Not a single movement as Jose and the Captain rope the boat to its mooring.

From here the smoke is joined by a smell of - burned pork. Call it that.

The captain signals Jose to take point. Smart man. He's been in iffy situations before. Jones moves out unasked, so I fall back to cover him. Someone has to do this right.

I glide over to one smoldering heap. From the poles, once a long house. They build them in the air for safety. Didn't help. There are at least two bodies I can see from here. Badly burned, which makes judgment difficult but - from the angle of fall - likely dead before the fire. From another angle I can see a third body. Smaller. Definitely a child. Skull on this one shows a clear bullet wound. He never knew what hit him. That's some comfort. General conclusion. Someone. Some *ones* - slaughtered this village and burned it afterwards. Either to conceal the crime or to remove some other evidence.

A flutter catches my eye. A piece of paper, ragged and folded, as if it had been in a pocket. Where did that come from? Even I almost overlooked it. In the city such things are ubiquitous, but here? It's unlikely anyone in this village had regularly seen writing, much less learned to read it, and none of the few shirts I had seen were the type to have pockets. This was from the attackers.

I unfold it carefully. No access to my lab facilities, but the scorching hasn't gone beyond the edges. Strange. Not a text at all, but a series of pictures. Sketches, perhaps. They look like what I have seen carved on ancient monuments. I tuck it away. Oracle will identify its source.

I'm still looking over the scene when Dr. Jones calls out from the edge of the clearing. "Live one here"

That get's a general rush. I follow more slowly, signaling Jose to fall back and cover me. No sense to clump up and make a target.

Jones has found a young girl. Four foot ten, perhaps one hundred pounds, perhaps less. Possible teen, possibly younger. The jungle tribes aren't a very large people. Definite local, judging by the tattoos and scarification. A good indicator as those things aren't acquired overnight. Looks healthy enough, if you discount the bullet would in her shoulder. Clean pass through. Enough care and she'll make it. We can't leave her here, and I wouldn't want to. Not my only witness. 

"Take her back to the ship."

When she recovers, we can learn what happened.

With the Captain's help they carry her back to the boat. Not an easy trip, but still for the best. She started to come around when they moved her. I don't know the language, but she was upset. Jones seemed to understand part of it, and he made reassuring noises that may or may not have been speech.

I make a last survey in the time I have. I check every building. Easy enough, there were only nine of them. A small tribe. Perhaps fifty people. Little more than a family. There are no more survivors here. Perhaps some in the jungle, although I can find no signs of flight. Perhaps someone out hunting who will return to this, unknowing of what had happened. I can't even leave a note. No one here could read. And none of the crewmen would be willing to stay behind.

A movement in the canopy. A flash of purple. I catch it from the edge of my eye. A bird? No. To large, and the movement is wrong. Whatever caused it is gone by the time I focus my binoculars, but the leaves are still moving. Something was there. My instinct is to follow, but.... No, this is not Batman's time. The living must come first.

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We get the girl back to the boat and settled in my cabin. It was nearest to Dinah, and Mrs. Captain seemed concerned about the proprieties. Besides, it gave me an excuse to move into Dick's.

Captain Allnut mentions going back, but ...why? For the girl? She will receive better care with us. To report the crime? There are few police in this part of the world. We can tell the authorities when we return to Santo Tomas, and they will file a report, but that is the limits of their power.

I'm no doctor, but Dr. Jones apparently is - or at least a damn good paramedic. With his help and that of Mrs. Captain we get her settled comfortably. The codeine no doubt takes the edge off her physical pain, and the Mrs. seemed to speak enough of her dialect to reassure her of our immediate intentions.

Unfortunately, she doesn't seem able to get a clear story. Only that the 'river men' came to the village. First they gave gifts. They left for a short while, and then some came back. This time they argued with the chief, and afterwards someone started shooting. She was too far away to hear what they were saying, but to close to avoid being shot. She fell down and was apparently overlooked in the first rush. When she came to they were lighting the huts. She crawled into the foliage, and was apparently left for dead. 

The girl may be primitive, but she's well acquainted with the effects of firearms. That seems to be the one modern idea these people have all caught on to. Other than that it's all nonsense. Skulls and gold and the Forest Serpent and the Jaguar God.

I would dismiss it, but it seems to bother Dr. Jones.

The superstitions I dismiss. The witness is... dubious. But we now know two things. One, that someone is going before us on this river. Two, they aren't playing nice.

 

END CHAPTER SEVEN


	8. Date with Destiny

There's no realistic chance of getting the rifles back. Such things are too valued, and to snatch them away would lead to hard feelings. Better to be generous and loved. But the Captain is no more thrilled than I am at the thought of random ordinance on deck. If nothing else, their value could lead to thefts and fights.

After my announcement that they may keep the new rifles - payment for their 'courage ' -the captain announces that tall firearms must be stored in the lobby gun rack. Reasonable - there they can be seen but not accessed.

The men are willing, but only after each rifle is carefully marked. For the less literate Dinah produces a sharpie marker and carefully writes each mans name on the butt. An operation akin to magic, if the respect engendered is any indication. Several of the more cautious ask for a second signature on their shirt or arm. A sensible precaution. That way they can check that the two match up.

We do get back the 'surplus' ammunition. I lock that in the Captains safe. If the voyage goes well, it will make an appropriate 'tip' for the crew.

Now I'm very glad Lucius talked me into expanding our satellite cover. The minute Dick and I can get alone, I'll be on with Oracle. First: to send a message to Cachiru and Salamanca. This is more their turf. Batman may not be able to avenge those deaths, but at least he can summon someone who will. Second: to find out why it occurred. Who is on this river with us, and what would they want with a small hunting tribe?

Something meaningless, I assume. Most crimes are remarkably unimaginative.

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My third task is to try for a bath. The stink of burned flesh is into everything, and while Dick is too kind to complain, even * I * don't want to be near me.

Down here that's a major undertaking. You would think that a in a boat on the river water at least would be reasonably plentiful. No. Not on this river. Even excluding the voracious local wildlife, the river water is teaming with unpleasantries better left unencountered. Leaches, flukes, worms, and a host of other painful ailments-to-be. So every drop of water has to be boiled before it is used.

This would explain while the concept bathroom is - not a concept. A bath locally is an oversized tin pail dumped between the dresser and the bed. As for hot water? I'm grateful the local climate quells that desire. Not that Mrs. Captain is unsympathetic. She just knows the limitations of her ship.

“A bath? And another for Doctor Jones?” She finds that more then a bit unreasonable.

“Actually, ma'am...” I give her my best 'airhead' smile. “I had thought four?”

“Four! No! Two only!”

Who says I don't know how to negotiate? 

“Americanos ricos locos.” She turns to a crewman, muttering “Menta mi banera. Y el otro uno dinse mantenemos el maiz. !Pongo en estas habitaciones locas de himbres - y este seguro a lo sacude primero!” Yes, please *do* shake out the thing first, I think as she continues. “ Entonces diga Hector al divieso que algunos mas regan, y mentan dos cubo calientes.”

“You!” She points a stern finger at me. “You share with Mr. Grayson.”

I am definitely suspect since she found the unlocked door to Dinah's room.

“Dr. Jones, you share with Senorita Lance.” She gives him her fiercest look. “And you let the lady go first.”

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The soap is harsh. The water is more tepid then warm. No matter. After this day even cold water would be welcome. It suffices. The lye soap works to strip some of the scent from my skin and hair. And Dick’s fingers massaging through my hair manages to at least dull the images in my brain. Slightly.

I used to feel a bit guilty at this side of my need for him. I suppose it is that old puritan edge to my heritage. When we were both younger - when he was *so* young - the fire at the end of combat would leave me uneasy. As if by indulging myself I somehow deprived the injured of some attention or empathy that was rightfully theirs. As if love was a waste of power in personal indulgence. I know better now. Dick and his carney ways taught me at least that much. To love and be loved is a source of strength. A healing and a solace. Without him, without this, the burdens of the Bat would have crushed my sanity.

He scoops up water and pours it through my hair, rinsing the last touch of shampoo off my nape. Finished. He drops a light kiss on my ear, then stands. Holding up a towel, he gestures for me to rise.

I do so, stepping from the tub and drying myself briskly. This tin pot is not quite the tiled paradise of the bathroom in Wayne manor, but it has served.

Dick skims the soap from the top, then steps in. He prefers a shower. Smiling, I raise the pitcher of warm water and pour is slowly over his head. With both hands full I can’t help, but at least I can watch the thin trails of water as they trickle over the granite muscles of his shoulders and back. My lips yearn to follow those drops.

Soon enough, I promise myself. As soon as Dick is clean and comfortable.

He scrubs quickly, soaping his hair with the practiced speed gained in all those years of school athletics. Although even the BHPD locker room - or the Gotham Prep gymnasium before I arranged the renovations - could not be quite this primitive.

Taking his towel, he shakes the last of the water from his eyes and steps from the tub. A quick rub has his dark curls damply dry. The rest? That can air dry, I decide, as I step into his willing embrace.

His beauty has combined somehow with the terrors of the day, and all my needs are now reflected in his eyes. Love. Comfort. Solace. Protection. At least that is what I see. I hope he sees those things in my eyes, because they are most certainly in my heart. 

Towels abandoned, we move as one to the rope bed. I hear the faint creak from the ropes as he joins me, but it holds firmly. Good construction. Almost silent. Excellent, because any noise I cause now I want to come from Dick.

I allow my lips to brush over his chest. He is salty-sweet, tasting wonderfully of health and youth. Running my tongue down his smooth-shaven chest, I breathe in the cherished scent of burgeoning arousal. This is life. This is the answer to all the terrors and cruelties of mankind. This is Dick.

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I lean back on a bark-filled pillow, resting the notebook on my chest.

Oracle has come through with that analysis of the feathers. Local, as I had expected. Which basically gives me no information at all. The paper was equally unproductive. The glyphs are from the Aztec script system. A calendar marking. Such things are common here, carved over every stella and pyramid. Beyond that she is strapped for a meaning. I do get a full report on the Jaguar Tongue. Nasty thing. Maria Alvarez did not exaggerate by much. Fourteen inches long with a jade studded gold hilt and a broad flint blade. Perfect for hacking open a man's chest, which is apparently what it was designed for.

Barbara's report backs up what Jones was saying. The Mayans would 'deify' their Kings by ripping out their hearts and burning them as a gift to the sun. Not too popular with the Aztecs, who apparently viewed it as a waste of a good meal. Less popular with the Spanish, who probably viewed it as a waste of a good slave. I don't find much good to say about the whole idea.

Despite both conquests, the Mayan culture survived in the more remote areas until - well, basically until about now. Or next year, since it isn’t going away. Mrs. Alvarez wasn't joking about the occasional animal sacrifice. The police leave that alone because - well, because at least it's not children.

The spookiest part of the Jaguar Tongue history is that it was in private hands, and presumably in at least potential use, until 1956. That's when it was loaned to the Cultural Museum of Hidalgo. Loaned, not given. Two months ago it's owners had asked for it back.

Here's the kicker. The owner is listed as a Mrs. Mona Fiero. That's right. The same Mona Fiero that owns the Hidalgo trading Company.

Now I really want to know what's going on.

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Dinner that night is a strained affair.

Mrs. Captain sets an excellent table. Amazing, under the circumstances. Linen, silver and crystal reminiscent of the ship’s antebellum days. Dick remembered to pack some excellent wines, although how he discovered the proper vintage for lizard? Maybe Barbara helped. Put the waiters in suits and shoes and Alfred would approve of the service. The greens are fresh, and Mrs. Captain’s cook is a genius with fish. At least, that's what Dinah says. Dr. Jones appears to prefer the iguana with roast chilies. I don't seem to have much of an appetite. Well. I comfort myself. At least they’re not serving ham.

No, the meal is fine. It's the conversation that has problems. Mass immolation is just not an appetizing subject. But what else is there. The weather?

I decide on a topic. At least my mind will have something to chew on.

‘So, Dr. Jones, what do you make of this?” I hand him the paper found in the village.

He glances at is. “A date. Sotz' Ix, The Jaguar and Bat.” Jones passes the paper on to Dinah. “Fairly significant on the Mayan calendar. The local peoples had a remarkably sophisticated knowledge of astrology. More so then you might think, given our lack of sky on the river. But the local mountains give an excellent view of the southern constellations.” He waves a fork in the general direction before spearing another piece of fried plantain. “The came up with a surprisingly accurate dating system.” He lays down the fork, enthused by the subject, " Complicated, though. Thirteen days a week, with twenty rotating names. Eighteen months a year, plus shift days. Helps to use a computer. Used to be a bitch doing it on paper." He grins and makes a scratching gesture with the knife, indicating writing. “Don't know how the locals kept it straight. Must be why they needed to carve all the big calendars. But it comes out to 365 days a year. That's better then the old Julian.” He picks up the paper, rechecking it against his memory. “This would be the spring equinox.”

“Which is?” Other then his freshman paper.

“Oh? About a week from now.”

That's something, but a week from now for what? I'll run it past Oracle, but I don't hold out much hope.

One comfort. Whatever is happening, it will have to happen soon. And I'll be here to stop it.

 

END CHAPTER EIGHT


	9. Danger in the Dark

I am in that space at the edge of sleep when the first backwash breaks against the hull.

“Dick!” My hand reaches instinctively towards him.

His eyes snap open, scanning over my back into the darkness. We listen as the splash comes again.

“Starboard side.” I whisper.

Dick is up and into his kevlar before the scraping stops. I buzz Dinah and suit up myself. If she's with Jones, he'll be warned. If not, we can alert him *after* we are prepped.

The new sounds are muffled thumps. Men boarding from a rope ladder. Caution indicated; that may mean allies in the crew.

The full moon gives a bit too much light, but the jungle canopy casts enough shadow to provide cover. Dick slides up the wall. High ground first. I head up the deck to the Captains cabin. Any serious piracy will have this as the target. The small boat they came in won’t hold enough to make theft worthwhile. To steal the cargo, they must take control of the boat.

Dinah buzzes. She is aft near the paddle wheel. Another target. Damage that, and we could be sitting ducks for raiders on the shore. Dr. Jones's apparently has found a snipers spot near the cabin.

I tell Dinah to have Jones hold off. Not to fire until we know their numbers and intent. I'd rather take them without gunplay if I can, but if there are too many that may not be possible. Still, unless they intend a kidnapping for ransom - and that is not unheard of in this part of the world - the cabin should be a secondary target.

Jones watches them come in. According to Dinah, he has counted ten. With possibly two more in the boat. High, but not impossible. I pass the order to wait. Now I definitely want prisoners. Twelve men is too many for simple river piracy. More so when we have no valuable cargo on board. That leaves two targets. The boat itself. Or me.

Two men approach the cabin below me. Quiet, but not invisible. I manage to drop one with my first jump. The other falls back, but not out of range of my kick. Unfortunately, he gets a shot off. Fires wide, but the noise is the problem.

Now we are in for a general melee.

I hear their shots, and answering fire. First from near our cabin. That would be Jones. Then from the crew as they wake and discover their danger.

Our rifles may be locked up, but the Captain and first mate have pistols of their own.

I leave the wheel deck to them. I have other work. Moving shadow to my left. Two more intruders, coming to the aid of their mates. The first attacks directly. He has a knife, and he's good with it. Just not good enough. I leave him unconscious for Captain Allnut to discover.

The second throws up a long plank, using it as a bridge to the second floor. I kick the plank and he falls back into the water. He screams, far to loudly, and there is a whipping sound. Like a Cuizinart. I glance down, and regret it. Apparently the piranha warnings were quite sincere.

I link a rope and try for him, but he's flailing around in too much pain to listen. By the time I can get a firm grip, it's too late. He dies as I pull him to the deck.

A few more minutes of noise, but it becomes clear that the attack has failed. No casualties on our side beyond the acceptable bruises and bumps. Rougher on the other side.

I slip back to my cabin, and manage to emerge shaken and surprised just in time to hear the Captain's count.

Dr. Jones has shot one. Fortunately though the leg, so he should recover. But he's in bad shape right now. Mrs. Captain got two more, more permanently. One of them a crewman, a new hire for this trip. The two in the boat had the brains to leave when they saw they were loosing, and in a steam powered riverboat we can't hope to catch them. Two of mine took advantage of my distraction to join them, and are gone as well. Dick and Dinah accounted for all the others.

None of the remaining crew is seriously hurt, although Greg Ch'oc has taken a blow to the arm that will keep him off the wheel deck for a while.

I do the math. From ten, two have fled and three are dead. One is alive but unconscious. That means, all told, we have available four prisoners to interrogate.

I am the 'jefe', so Captain Allnut invites me along. Part moral support, part an influential witness if any trouble should come back on him.

From the looks of them, the pirates are the general run of river rats. Not local, or at least not tattooed. Perhaps port Indians. Their features are less European then their clothes.

The Captain rules on his ship to I let him lead. If I need more answers, I can get them later.

Allnut grabs the smartest looking of the bunch. Nasty, tough looking punk with two missing fingers set off by a jagged circular tattoo. A professional thug on one level of another. “Who sent you, you sodding mother? Who sent you to raid my ship?”

The pirate spits at him and then - dies. That simply. No response to resuscitation or CPR. I've known a few Masters who could do that, but a river thief? I wish I had the facilities for an autopsy.

The other three are willing to talk. After what they just saw, they babble. Unfortunately, they have nothing worthwhile to say. The first man was their boss, and he hired them in Chakpac for the job. No reason needed and none given. They can't even say what it was he wanted to steal. Everything, they assume.

“Fuck it.” Allnut turns to his brother -in-law. “Lock these bastards in the hold.”

Nasty pit. They'll be miserable, but they'll survive.

“Sorry for the bother, Wayne.” The Captain turns to me. “I'll give them to the police when we get back to Chakpac.”

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“Christ Dick.” I'm back in my cabin. The bed is ready, but I can't put myself in it.

“The dead man.” Dick sits beside me. “Bruce, it was a suicide. I don't know how, but.... There was nothing you could do.”

“Not him. The other.” I reach for his hand. “I killed a man, Dick. I kicked him into the water, and... Christ... I didn't know piranha could do that.” My knuckles tighten, turning white. Dick does not complain, just squeezes back. And listens. “I knew they bit, but... I don't know. I thought it was faster. Cleaner. The scream....”

“I heard it, Bruce.” He holds me. What is there to say?

I have killed before. It shames me, but in this business we all have our body counts. Some pass, some haunt. This one will be with me for a long time.  
Dick knows I won't sleep. Neither will he, listening to my nightmares. He should go. He’s tired. I know that. But he'll stay with me. And I don't have the strength to send him away.

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The funeral is at dawn.

Unfortunately, this is the Rio Chak in the summer. Civilization made the Captain hold a rough sketch of a service, but afterwards the bodies went overboard. Easier than digging, safer, and from what I saw of the local fauna, more effective.

I attend the prayers but skip the later part. I could deal with the Joker threatening me with piranhas but now I know what they can do. I regret their deaths but Dr. Jones is right. They would not have hesitated at ours.

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I leave Dr. Jones with the Captain. This was an assault on my people. We need to meet alone. Dinah is wearing long pants, which means she's still in kevlar. I'm thinking about it. Dick's not. But he is cleaning that miserable pistol of his. Why did I ever let him get involved with the police? We are silent until they finish with Oracles report.

Dick looks up first. “Time for the suits?”

That is the question.

“Not yet.” I answer, meaning rather, not here. “We have too much of an audience. Dr. Jones does not strike me as either stupid or disposable. A virtue when we hired him, but now?”

They both understand. There is a risk when people who keep secrets stay near people who uncover them for a living. Dr. Jones, for all his rogue reputation, would know who to talk to and be believed.

“I've contacted Cachiru and Salamanca, both of which are JLA reserve. They will handle matters - if necessary.”

“Any ID on the pirate?”, Dick asks.

Dinah answers him. “Nothing specific. Barbara tells me the tattoo was once used by a gang of pirates called the Sengh Brotherhood; but they haven't been seen since the days of sailing ships.”

I consider several possibilities. There could be a criminal group active here, and he could have been a member. Those groups have a way of coming back when they are least wanted. Then again, it could be just tough-guy bluff. I dismiss the question. The local heroes have been warned, and they will be alert.

“Is there anything to this Jaguar knife?” I ask her.

“Enough to get people killed. Oracle has no data on it's actual 'magic'. Nor can she find any proof that it is truly involved here.”

That's the part that troubles me the most. Some crooks will kill on a rumor. The dagger could have vanished into some European collection and these people could be dead for nothing. I need something more. “Any sightings?”

“None yet.” Dinah knows how these things work. “The Cat is on notice. If it gets over to Europe, she’ll get it back at request.”

“So what do *we* do, Bruce?” Meaning who do we pound. I know how Dick thinks.

“Continue on our trip.” I give that a thought. “Unless we get a chance to handle matters first.” I know how he thinks because I think the same way. The image of pounding these murderers is one I can enjoy. “We will hold off for now but......Dinah. Keep your gear handy. Just in case. And...keep an eye on the good doctor.”

Dinah give me a high sign as she leaves. Some people love their work.

“So. You'll let it go?” From Dick, that's not a question.

“Of course not.” I answer. “But if it's just river pirates - I don't think we need the Justice League. Bludhaven's finest should be enough for that.”

“Merci du complement.” Dick’s tone is sarcastic. He knows I wouldn't trust 'Bludhaven's finest' to run a speed trap.

“Besides, if I had to call J'onn for nothing...”

Dick smiles. “He'd come.”

I nod agreement. “But I'd hear about it for years and years and years.”

 

 

END CHAPTER NINE


	10. Show the Black Flag

It is Gregory Ch'oc who spots the corpse on the shore. “Not there long. Not if it's still there.” A cold commentary on the local fauna, but very true. The alligators can easily walk that far. Not to mention the cats, and monkeys, and tapirs.

“No flies either.” the Captain adds. That means it's very fresh. In this climate you find flies on the living.

No visible village. I turn to Doctor Jones. He supposedly knows this area. “Do you think there are people further in?”

“Maybe. Likely.” He gestures at the map. “This far down they don't like to build right on the water. Too risky.”

It's been fifty years since slave raids were a real risk, but people have long memories. I don't blame them.

“I want to go in.” I tell the Captain. “We can't be certain from here the man is dead, and even if he is, there may be others.”

From his expression, the Captain is less then enthralled at the prospect of being a good Samaritan. But it is, to some extent, my ship. “OK, Wayne. Same crew as last time.” Captain Allnut signals Jose forward. “But I've got to stay. Last night was rough on my wife, and she needs her sleep. Take Leon instead.”

Reasonable. Jose smiles at the chance at another expedition. The last one made him something of a local hero, and he is delighted with his new status. And this time, with the Captain staying behind, he will be the jefe.

Captain Allnut turns to his brother-in-law. “Greg, get them their rifles.”

The man has a hard time carrying them with his arm in a sling, but no one else can be trusted with such a task. Even so, Leon asks Dinah to double check the name. She does so carefully before handing him his ammunition.

The trip in is the same as before, save that someone has to jump out to beach the boat. I volunteer. I have the suit, and after what I've seen of the local fish, I wouldn't want anyone to go in the water without one.

Everyone knows the risk, and this time they fan out without being told. Jones covers me while I check the victim. From my first touch I can tell that the man is dead. He hasn't been that way long. The blood is still fresh. 

“No luck”, I shake my head as Jones holds up the first aid kit. It will not be needed here.

Jose points to a trail whose entrance is concealed behind some low brush.

“Village?” I ask Jones.

“Likely.”

“Let's go.” I tell our crew.

“Cautiously.” Jones adds. “ We can't be sure of our reception.” 

Except, my mental voice offers, that it will probably be hostile.

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Perhaps it would have been, had there been anyone left to receive us. I check every body. The raiders have been very through. This time there are no survivors. I turn my attention to the small clearing. This was not even a village. Only three houses. More of a hunting camp.

“Same crew as last time.” I point to some long branches trust into the fire. Future torches.

I had left Jose and Leon in the brush to cover us, but now I gesture them forward. There is no one left here to be a threat.

“Even the killers are gone.” I shake my head at the mindless waste.

“Then where are they?” Jones views the scene with a excess of knowledge. “Four men can't be enough to scare them off.”

I wonder at that myself, until I hear the helicopter blades.

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It is a distance, even at a run. By the time we can see the water the River Queen is smoldering.

Leon races to the shore first, only to be cut down by a hail of machine gun fire. The helicopter we had heard is lifting off overhead, ladder still dangling from its open door. The rest of us hit the dirt, but it is too late. The gunner directs a last spray at the foliage as the machine vanishes over the canopy.

"Ola!" A cry from Jose. I make my way over. He is still alive, but has taken a round to the upper thigh. Missed the artery, thankfully. Incapacitating, but with antibiotics survivable.

Jones is unhurt. It had looked like he was under the line of fire, but I guess he got lucky. It only tore his sleeve.

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The hail of bullets has punctured the motorboat, and it settles to the bottom as we watch.

I swim to the ship. I have no choice. If Dick is there....

Strange. I smell a sweet scent under the wood smoke. Gas. Logical. There is no way they could have gotten past Dick without it. Not past Dinah either.

Well-kept wood burns poorly without an accelerant, and they had taken our gasoline earlier. Now I was grateful for that. The fire extinguishers are still in place, and I use them.

They had worked fast here. Several of the crew are wounded but alive. I will help them later.

I check the cabins first. Dick's is trashed but empty. Even drugged he put up a fight. Mine - the girl is still there. They have slit her throat. Deliberate murder. She could not have posed a threat. Several more bodies are outside on the covered deck, but neither Dick nor Dinah is among them. Thank Ghod. They must have been taken by the raiders. Why I don't know. I won't wait to find out.

I tap my contact button. “Oracle. Tracer on Nightwing and Canary.”

“Active.” Never has that mechanical voice been more welcome. Ten minutes and I'll have them located exactly.

Continuing down the deck, I come across a corpse I don't recognize. One of the raiders. Even ambushed, the ship put up a fight. I check him carefully, but find no clues. Another local, indistinguishable from the previous raiders. Not surprising. More valuable personnel would have been rescued.

Greg Ch'oc is still in the wheelhouse. He is badly injured but struggling to rise.

“Pirates! El tomo a mi hermana, y el Capitan!” So the man can speak Spanish. Fortunate. I would not want to rely on the Doctor's ability to translate.

“Descanso.” I insist. Greg Ch’oc can do nothing more now. “Cuidare de las cosas.” This is the Batman's time. 

I check the boat carefully, making sure that the fires are out. When I'm finished, I bring Ch'oc the count of his crew. Four dead, all the others injured to some degree. Most severe, but none likely fatal. With first aid, even the worst should survive until help arrives. Oracle says two days minimum, but the medics are on the way.

The raiders weren't very good thieves. If they were thieves. My gear is still in its case, as is Nightwing's and Canary's. I take it all. They'll need it when we get to them.

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“Trashed, but nothing taken.” Jones says as he steps out of his own cabin. It must be in decent shape, as he emerges with a clean shirt.

I suppose he would need one. Jones has followed me back on board, assisting the wounded, and his old one was covered with blood. Uncomfortable, and also a bad idea given the local wildlife. The beasts can be aggressive enough without giving them any ideas.

“I checked the back. Main wheel is gone”, Jones reports. No needs to say more. This ship has ended its travels.

After a discussion with Ch'oc, we beach the boat. Even damaged, it will provide better shelter than the open jungle. Injured though he is, Jose is stronger then most. He will be Ch'oc's second officer.

“If we leave the rifles, can you hold out until help arrives?” I ask the new command crew. “I have called for medics, but it may take a few days.”

“Senor.” Jose laughs despite his pain. “For one of these rifles, the next boat that comes by will give us all a ride. To San Paulo. No, to New York!”

“Perhaps, but within three days the Doctors will come.” I give the man a severe look. “Wait for them.”

Memo: Ask Lucius where one buys a riverboat these days.

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“What do we do now?”, Jones asks.

“Follow them.” I wonder at the question. What else could I possibly intend to do?

“In this jungle?” His tone is incredulous. “They could be anywhere!”

“I know where they are. Now it's just a matter of getting there.” I could call in a strike force, but without knowing exactly where Dick and Dinah are, that could do more harm than good. I know they are alive. Oracle is picking up their bio-monitors, and they are showing stress but are still strong. That's enough to make me trade time for certainty.

Oracle has J'onns number, as well as the Titans. If anything changes, she knows who to call. For now, I can handle it.

OK, you bastards. Now it's time for the suit.

 

END CHAPTER TEN


	11. Claws of the Cat

Actually, we float down the river for a while. I would prefer a canoe, but all we have is the old wooden launch from the riverboat. Slow going without an outboard motor, but even rowing the wide boat is faster then walking. We're just lucky the pirates didn't have time to so more damage. 

“Damn”, Jones mutters. “Rocks ahead.”

I turn to look. He's right. Rowboats are not made for white water. Problem. There's still a lot of river travel in front of us, so I don't want to lose the boat just yet.

“Portage?”, Jones offers.

“If we have to.” I look at the steep banks. Not an easy walk. “The water looks slow. If you keep it steady I think I can push us past.”

I hand him the oars and ease over the side of the boat. I was right. The water is barely waist deep. We are in more danger of running aground then of being rushed downstream. As long as I can keep the boat off of the rocks, we should manage.

We are almost back into open water when I feel the tug on my leg.

I have half a second to breath before the massive clamp tightens and pulls me under. Thank god for the suit. Even through kevlar the teeth feel like driven nails.

The water is dark with algae. Even a few inches down the light vanishes. Without my grip on the boat I lose all sense of direction. No matter, the only place we are going together is down. I can't risk the taser with Jones still in the boat. I reach for the knife. Throat is best. Lucky I know where that is. Just below my ankle. The shallow water makes it difficult to maneuver. Come on, Izod, roll me over! 

My lungs are aching by the time he does so. My first strike falls short. Slashes, but not deep enough. Just enough to annoy him. Good thing is he lets go for a minute, I push to the surface and grab another breath. Then he's on me again, aiming for an arm. Can't let him get that. Even through the armor he could break a bone. Higher on the hip is better for me. This time I hit the throat solidly and with force.

“Stay in the boat!” I shout.

There's blood in the water. That will bring predators. Already I can see the reptile’s comrades approaching to feast on their fallen companion. Now I'm grateful for the rocks. I climb up one to access the damage. My leg is intact, but the bruises should be spectacular.

“Move down the river.” I call towards the boat. “I will catch up with you.” I have no energy left to guard a civilian.

Jones ignores me. Using one oar as a punting pole, he maneuvers the boat with inches of my rock. Holding out the handle of the whip, he calls out to me. “Roll into the boat. I can keep it steady.”

In this water? I doubt it, but I check it out.

He can.

Starting hands first, I roll into the deck, landing on my back. Not the most spectacular gymnastic maneuver, but the wisest. I land centered and barely rock the boat. My shirt is in rags, but that is immaterial. The suit is intact, and that is what matters.

“Interesting long-johns you've got there.” He makes it a question.

“Steelworks out of Metropolis.” I long ago learned it is best to answer such questions - as long as the answer doesn't answer the question.

“Looks tough.” 

“Great thermals - it helps with the heat.” Which is true, as far as that goes. Heat, cold, wet - my skin temperature will stay at 95 degrees. There is a reason why everyone wears these things. And despite what O'Brien says, it *isn't* a cape fetish. The plain blacks aren't as protective as the full bat-suit, but it's a bit more flexible and a *lot* less identifiable. If the bad guys haven't made me yet, why give them a clue?

I rub my leg and the conversation drops. No real damage. Just the lactic acid burn of exercise. I'll take that as a lesson. Slack back for six days and you feel it. Sensation is returning, but.... one hour to the start of a long hike.

I let him row a while.

It's just short of that hour before we come to the next set of rocks. This time the white water is rough enough to frighten an Arkansas lawyer. Satellite maps shows a waterfall just past the bend. 

I sit up. “Well, Dr. Jones? Are you ready for a hike?”

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It’s late afternoon when Jones calls for a break. Reasonable. I could go on, but he is a civilian - and less equipped. I am still checking out the ground, hoping for a clean rock without excess vermin, when he pulls a knife and starts hacking at one of the trees. Within seconds, he is back with what looks like a cluster of very short bananas.

He pulls one off and tosses it to me. “Lunch, Mr. Wayne.”

“Are you sure?” I look at the green and black length suspiciously. “I have rations.” And I don't know if that greenery is eatable. From what I've studied, most of this beautiful growth is as toxic as Isley.

“I do know this area.” From his smirk, I get the message that he understands my questions - and finds them amusing. That's the problem with hiring a competent guide. They think they know more then you do - just because they do.

I decide to trust him. The fruit is delicious. Sweet and surprisingly juicy. It both fills my stomach and reduces my thirst. Excellent, as clean water may be in very short supply once we go through what we are carrying. Of course, by then I expect to have Dick and Dinah back, and very likely be on a fast path out of this overgrown weed-patch. If that means calling in favors - so be it.

By the time I am finished with the second bunch, Jones is picking up his hat. I assume that means he is ready to go again.

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This is the deep forest. Except for a thick mulch of fallen leaves, the jungle floor is surprisingly clear. Without cutting, little light reaches the ground to sustain the smaller brush. Most life, plant and animal, is up in the canopy. It's an easy hike, as such things go.

Oracle tracks us on her geological map. Satellite positioning is very accurate. Too bad it makes no allowance for geology. It takes us all day to come within ten miles of Dick and Dinah's transponder signals. That is about as accurate as the system can get. Normally it’s quite close enough. In this case? I look at the unrevealing walls of solid green. In this case I’m realizing just how far even one mile can be.

Barbara promises to link with Whitehorse and the JLA, and get me a better fix. That is good, but not good enough. We will have to wait on the orbits - and the light is failing.

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Night in the jungle. Not a fun place to be. Even with satellite guidance it will be too risky to move. Starlight lenses are all but useless under the canopy. We have lights, but they are nothing against the deep darkness of the jungle night.

We have reached the location where Oracle has placed their transponders. That means we are within a quarter mile of our quarry. We might as well be back at the river.

I examine the rock wall. There must be a plateau up there, as we are next to a waterfall. I could climb it, but Dr. Jones...? Not without more equipment than we have. I could leave him here and return for him after I free the crew, but to operate without the local language increases the risk to the hostages. Without interrogation, I could miss some of them.

Is there a path? I move along the escarpment, checking for shadows that might indicate a path. I've traveled perhaps three hundred feet when I hear the snarl.

Shadow. Moving. For all the talk of jaguars, this is the first I've seen. They are bigger then expected - or this is just a large specimen. The branch it stands on lies between me and Jones. I move in carefully. No sign that its seen me, but so far I have the time to be careful. I can't see the eyes, but from the ears it must be tracking Jones. Shout a warning? No! His pistol would be ineffective against a beast this size. Only a perfect shot could take it down.

I am almost to it. Perhaps if I come from above, then.... To late. As if sensing it's own danger, the cat leaps. Huge and powerful, it lands on the unprepared human below it, curved claws slashing in its flight. My companion vanished beneath its bulk.

No time to be subtle. I fling the knife for distraction. No damage, but the pain makes it turn. Shoot the D-Cell. The impact knocks the cat back, and the elastic lines tangle around its flailing limbs. That buys time. Can I get Jones out? Can he move?

*Poppbang*. One clean skull shot. The spotted body falls in a heap of fur and polymer.

Dr. Jones rolls over, reholstering his pistol as he stands. He must be in shock. No one should move with such injuries. I get a view of his shoulders, bearing deep slashes below the scarlet ruins of his shirt. I grab the med-kit, knowing it is inadequate, but hoping it will suffice until Oracle can send rescue. “Stay down! I can...”

He ignores my assistance. “Don't worry, Mr. Wayne. I'll heal.”

I reach down. The wounds of the claws are healing as I watch.

“You are.... meta?” I nearly growl. This was *not* in Oracles report.

“Not exactly”, he answers, brushing away my hand.

I think back to the incident by the river, and the arc of fire that I had witnessed. At the time I had dismissed my own vision, but... “The gunner...”, I start carefully, “did not miss....”

Jones has the grace to look embarrassed. “It sort of a long story but.... yeh.” He shakes the leaves from his Fedora and places it firmly back on his head. 

“I have time for long stories.”

He gives me a long look, assessing his chances of passing off some lie. I glare back the answer - none. He must be convinced, because.....

“Ever heard of the Holy Grail?”

What! The adrenaline surge is enough to shake me. Is that what he is after? How could he know? 

“That is a subject I will *not* discuss.” The bat-voice covers the fear.

“Sure.” Jones turns away and straightens his collar. “Fine with me.” Interesting. He seems almost relived. 

I drop the now useless cell shooters and stuff the med-kit back in my pack. “Let's get moving.”

“Let's not.”

I turn as he smiles, knocking aside vines with the handle of his whip. In the narrow beam I catch the patterns of deep-carved stone.

Jones points to the narrow patch of black that marks an opening in the rock. “This is our way in. This is the Door of Itzamana.”

 

END CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

**Bonus points for the fan who remembers WHEN Bruce Wayne encountered the Holy Grail.**


	12. Pirate’s Lair

One nice thing about the rain forest canopy is that there are very few places to land a helicopter, and none of them are natural.

Using the Whitehorse satellite, Oracle spotted the opening on the first pass. So I know where they are. Now the only problem is getting us there. Not a challenge if I had my Bat-pack, but for this trip I packed only minimum technology. After all, this is supposedly a vacation, not a League mission. I suppose I could still call for air support. Kal or Powergirl or one of the Lanterns. No. In addition to being hard to explain, they would take too long. I want my Dick back now.

Less then two thousand yards by satellite telemetry. Same approximate height from sea level. In other words - just the other side of that wall. Time to hope Dr. Jones is as good as his rep.

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I look at Jones. He appears healed, although all magic is untrustworthy. Even that magic. No matter. Time to go.

Pirates below, cats above. The sacred cave tunnel is the only access if we want to rescue the crew. I'm not too worried about my own people. Dinah's a pro, and Dick? He could handle twice this number on his own. If he was on his own. He would never leave hostages, and in this case that makes him vulnerable. So - free the Captain and his wife first, and our people will catch up in the chaos.

Carefully shielding the beam, I aim my flashlight down the ancient tunnel. It's a tight fit, but not impossible. I leave the khakis and go in my suit. Nothing on it to snag. I'll pull the belt behind me when it's clear. The vine ropes give me a sudden longing for my de-cell, but they will do.

I go first. About twenty feet of narrow passage, and then it opens into a larger chamber. I step in, giving Dr. Jones room to enter behind me. Some sort of storage chamber. I assume the Doctor would know. Empty but impressively intact. The floor is littered, but dry. 

The walls are elaborately painted, with colors still bright in the narrow light. Scenes of combat, of harvest, and of other subjects best unexplored. Carved stone trims the roof, dropping down to mark a door in each wall. Three exits, all larger and more ornate then the tunnel by which we came in. One leads to where we are going. I risk more light. Dr. Jones will need it to read the inscriptions.

“Warab'alya.” He carefully sounds out the first inscription. 

Nope, bad choice. I know the word for grave.

“Xibalba.” 

Underworld or hell. Definitely not.

Must be this one. I move to the carved opening. Nice size for the locals. Should be an easy passage unless it narrows. I'm about to enter when a flash catches my eye. Shifting movement below the leaf-strewn floor, caught by our lantern. A viper, large and now annoyed by the sudden light. Large enough to strike above my boots. I reach for the batarang which is not there when - snap. A flash of leather near enough that I feel the air from the strike.

The whip is back in its coil before the remains of the snake can hit the far wall. 

So that thing is *not* decorative.

I scan the floor before moving. A pause, then two more heads appear. This place is crawling - well, slithering - with vipers. Not near either of us yet. I have time. Careful not to move below the waist, I retrieve my belt. From now on I will wear it.

I pull out a combat knife. “Hold still, Jones.” A clang on metal on stone as my thrown blade decapitates the serpent nearest his feet. 

Another crack as his whip dispatches its companion. This guy is better with that thing then Selena. 

I pull down my full mask. There are likely more like those snakes within this complex, and I would hate to meet one face-first. “Let's go.”

Jones shudders as he steps past the remains. “Snakes,” he mutters. “Why does it have to be snakes?”

Mental note: He hates snakes. I take another look at the whip. I wonder if he likes cats? If I'm still pissed at Jones when this is over, maybe I'll introduce him to Selena.

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The exit is overgrown but passable. It's been used, but probably not so recently as to make our opponents aware of it. Good. I will need every advantage I can get. Whatever weird mojo Jones may have, he's still not Dick.

We come out low on the rock wall. On this side the terrain slides down, draping away from the narrow cliff we just passed through. The hillside is thick with bits of carved rock and structures. All ruins. Only one courtyard appears to be in use. Chairs and fire pits. No significance, likely. Just a flat place to cook dinner.

Living quarters are on the lower terrace. Army surplus, from the look of it, but not shabby. There is money and planning behind this scene. Not a large encampment. Fifteen men, twenty-five at most. The first attack must have been with most of their force, which means they are weakened now.

I scan the camp. An encampment is what it is, not a base. Canvas and rope rather then wood and stone, with no indication that they have altered the terrain for deep defense. That helps. Once I learn where our people are, nothing should hinder their retrieval. How to learn?

There is a guard on the east side. He looks tired, and an outcropping of rocks conceals him from view each time he passes behind him. Heavy growth covers most of the approach. He's volunteered. The man looks local. That's the only problem. I'd rather go alone, but an Indian may not speak Spanish. Still, he's the best target going.

“Jones”, I whisper. “Guard at four o'clock. I'm going to take him out. When you see him go behind the rock, give it thirty seconds then came after us.”

The doctor must have some experience, because he doesn't argue the point.

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It's an easy wiggle to just below my targets path. Once in position, I wait for him to stroll into shadow. Now! One clean hit and he's falling. I catch his rifle before it can hit the ground and make noise.

Hitting the dirt wakes him, but by then I'm on his chest with one hand on his mouth and the other at his throat.

“?Habla usted el espanol?”

A blank stare. The tone he understands, but not the words. I hold him immobile until Jones joins us.

“Ask him if he knows where the captives are.”

I wait until Jones has finished speaking, then slightly lessen the pressure on my prisoners throat. Only slightly.

“Kimi.”

I don't know the language, but I know evasion. My hand tightens, and I watch as the guards face turns blue. Then I let him try again.

Now the syllables come in a tangled rush.

I watch then both carefully as Jones makes out the meaning.

“Does he know?” I whisper.

“Yes. He says they are in the third tent from the end. All except the woman. The boss did not believe she was involved, so he kept her separately. Because she was a ‘pajaro muy bonito’.”

One quick tap. The now useless guard will be out for a few hours. Long enough for us to get our people and vanish.

Jones continues. “He said he was hired by a foreign man - a pirate. Apparently the man had plans to steal the Jaguar Tongue, but when his agent broke into the museum it was already gone. He thinks you may have the dagger, and he wants it.”

The bastard could have had it and kept it for all I cared - at least before he decided to mess with my people. Big mistake, and one I would see he paid for in full.

I strip off the unconscious mans shirt and pants. In the dark, these should be my ticket into the camp. “Wait for us back in the tunnel. You should be safe until I bring out the hostages.”

“Alone?” Jones’s skepticism colors his voice.

“I do better on my own.” Without further conversation I start down the rock face, only to be halted by a cheerful voice.

“Hi guys.” The sound is low, but not weak.

“Ni....Dick! What?” He looks good. No visible damage and he's moving well.

“Hunting for the Bird.”

I take a deep breath as he continues. 

“Whatever they hit us with was pretty strong. The Captain's still sleeping.” Dick moves with us back into deeper shadow. “The chick doing the interrogation - I think she’s the pilot - locked me up separate from the others. She gave me something to counteract the drug. Wanted to know what we were up to. She and the boss man didn't like my answers. They were about to get interactive, when there was a big commotion at the edge of the camp. Guard ran in yelling something about a walking ghost. So they put me out again. It was dark when I came around, and then...no beeper. I got out, found the Captain and his wife, but I can't find Dinah. I didn’t want to risk moving them without her.”

“She may be in the jefe's tent”, Jones offers.

No real clue as to which one that is. The best, I would assume, but they all are about the same size and age. I message Oracle for a tighter location. If they removed Dick's tracer they may have done the same with Dinah's, but perhaps not. Her necklace is more easily overlooked than Dick's pager. If the signals are still separate we will have a lead.

“Any idea why you were taken?” From their questions, Dick will know.

“That Jaguar thing. I heard them talking.” Likely talking to him, but if he's been through interrogation he won’t tell Jones. “They all work for a man called Xander Drax. He's after the knife. At first they thought we had it. Now they think we are after it just like they are.” He pauses. “Here's the bad news. They think that *we* took out the villages.”

“What!” In my shock I almost forget to be silent.

“They think that we killed those people - trying to learn the path to the dagger.”

“Christ.” The waste of lives comes back to sicken me. “ Why would I want the damn thing? Why would I want any nasty trophy of this green corner of hell?”

Both men answer together.

“So you can kill the Jaguar God and rule over the City of Gold.”

 

END CHAPTER TWELVE


	13. An Unexpected Meeting

I pass Dick the parcel with his gear. Not all of it, just the gloves, boots, and blacks. That's the minimum, and this little trip was tight on luggage space. He's dressed before the response comes from Oracle. She has a satellite photo of the camp, both now and earlier. I mentally place her numbers against what I see. The pirates are definitely down from their top staffing. Perhaps gone, more likely asleep. Either will work in our favor. But the movement patterns give her a strong clue as to the camp layout.

I point to the tent she identifies as command. “Far end. Next to the helicopter.” I whisper.

“Makes sense. If I had one I'd keep an eye on it.” Nightwing replies. “Any wake up juice?”

I hand him an injector capsule from my belt.

“That should do it.” He palms the drug, smiling. “I'll empty tent number three. You take the door with Carol Merris.” He moves out, then turns back. “Dr. Jones, you cover our rears.”

As good a plan as any. I pull the hat low over my face and don the aspect of a camp guard. Not difficult, sentries are universally bored and universally ignored. I make it to the rear of my target tent unchallenged. Leaning back against it in a position of dull exhaustion, I use my palm knife to slit up the side of the tent. No light inside. Good. The tension on the canvas wall will keep it from flapping, and with the darkness the new opening should pass unnoticed. At least for long enough for me to work.

I yawn, and leaning back farther I vanish into the tent.

Credit to Oracle, this is it. Rough living, but with a desk, and sheets on a bed rather then a hammock. A stack of notes that I pocket unread. Time for them later. A bundle on the bed. Black Canary. Wrapped like a cat, so I assume they haven't had the opportunity to do much to her. 

She's still out, but a shot of amphetamine brings her around. Dinah's a pro. She knows the drill and wakes without a sound.

“Canary? Batman here.” I pull off the blindfold before cutting her out of the sheet. Ropes underneath. I'm impressed. These people may not know who we are, but they were taking no chances. 

I help her stand, and she goes through the isometrics that will force the blood back into her cramped limbs. “I'm OK. The figured me for arm-candy. Go get Dick.”

“Nightwing's free. He's getting the others. We'll meet them and Jones at the exit.”

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Nightwing has them out, but the Captain is in no shape for a jungle hike.

“Leave me.” Allnut’s voice is hard to make out. “Get my Martha out.” It takes a few seconds to understand. This is the first time I've heard his wife’s name. I don't need her look to know to ignore him. She’s much stronger, and she's not going anywhere without him.

“Not a chance.” Black Canary answers for us all. Then she glances at me. “ Can Oracle get us a chopper?”

“Sure,” Dick whispers back, “but why wait?” He flashes his thumb at the landing field. “Nothing wrong with the one already here.”

Except for the guards, who are going to discover people missing any minute now. I visually check out the machine. It's big enough. Waiting for another may be more of a risk, especially as the camp will certainly hear it coming. A chopper on the ground makes a lot less noise then one in the air. It's decided.

I signal my people into position. “Dinah, you move the Captain and his wife. Dr. Jones, cover us, and be prepared to run like hell.” I look at Nightwing. “Ready?”

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I still have the civvies, so I can walk on up. A slow stroll, paced to the shadow at the edge of my sight. I'm near the gas cans before the first challenge.

“?Oye, que usted hace aqui?”

The tired sentry’s rifle is still slung, so he's not too suspicious. I start towards him, doing my best to look drunk. That usually works.

“Ola! Usted no puede venit aqui!” He's getting wary. I stagger a bit to get him to open his hands. Perfect. A black shape drops from nowhere and he is down. I don't look. The body movement would be too revealing. Instead, I straighten at once, copying the posture of the defunct guard. Pity he was so short. No help for it. Turned towards the machine, I should pass for a few seconds.

I lean into the door. Damn, low on gas. We'll have to fuel her up before we take off. Lucky the fuel is right there. I move slowly, trying for natural. After a moment the 'other' guard joins me. Dick, with his foe's garb over his suit. Not perfect. The black shows under the short sleeves and open collar, but it's something.

He leans on the barrels, feeding out the fuel line as I hook up the helicopter. Five to ten minutes. I risk a look around. The camp is still quiet. So far, so good.

I'm staring on the second fuel tank when a shout comes from the other end of the camp. “Los cautivos, Ellos son idos.!!”

We are in for it now.

I send Dick into the pilot’s seat, and signal Dinah to start her run. Not perfect, but we will have to go with the fuel we've got.

The whole camp can hear sound of the blades turning. Dinah has a lead, but the guards are gaining. Jones fires a few shots to try and keep them down, but to no effect. They are more scared of their boss then of a bullet. Problem.

Each new assailant brings more noise, which is turn brings out more opponents to come against us. Not good. Both doors are open, and Dinah is loading as fast as she can, but Allnut and his wife are civilians and slow. I grab an axle rod and try to buy some time.

They are firing now. If one bullet hits the fuel tanks we are dead.

“Lift off!” I shout over the blade noise. “Go! GO!”

Dinah drops the ladder, and I lunge for it. My fingers touch, link, and....impact... slammed from behind. Glancing, but heavy enough to knock me off the ladder. Damn. I kick him off, but there are more. The copter turns back, lowers....

“GO!” I shout. “That's an order.”

A dark shape swings down on the line. “Let the girl drive.”

They aren't shooting now. Too dangerous, and with the advantage of numbers they think they can take us. I smile inside as Nightwing lands on the rifleman, dashing him unconscious to the pavement. No chance.

One fool swings a rifle, but it's no match for the Wing's escrima sticks. The punk is a moaning lump before my partner even reaches the ground.

Great to watch, but I have a few fools of my own to distract me. One with a long wrench to the right. Easy to counter with a bo kick. Another noisy sneaking up from the rear. My arm’s already down, so I snag a roll of cable and spin it at him. Follow-thru punch and he's out. A third to the left. Elbow, backhand chop, and flip. I use his momentum to send him into a fourth. They are still tangled when a side kick takes them out of the fight.

A de'cel line shadows past. Nightwing follows, swinging up and then over two more running for the tents. One spin takes them both. Good. If the boss isn't here already, we don't need these chums to tell him what went wrong. Nightwing wraps them and jumps back to snag one more hiding behind the fuel barrels.

*Spinggg.* Another rifle. No kevlar, so I hit the ground and roll. The shooters not expecting a hit below his knees. Double kick up while he's falling. His head snaps back and he's gone before he lands.

*Spinggg.Spinggg.* Damn, the idea’s catching on. This guy’s already on the ground playing at sniper. I knock over a few barrels, rolling them his way. Not heavy enough to do real damage, but they make Rambo scramble. He's distracted, and Nightwing is there to finish him.

Quick check. Five more, armed and nasty. Damn. I roll behind some boxes, needing a chance to stand up. But we will win this.

*Thwipp. Thwipp. Thwipp.* A sound from the south, coming in fast. Damn. That's not our chopper. Much smaller and faster. If those are reinforcements for the camp, we could be in trouble.

A quick flip around the crate, and a karate chop removes one more foe. A loud thud and moan suggests Nightwing caught another. Three more armed men lurking close, but we can take them if....

Where *is* that helicopter? I listen for it to land, but it does not. Just passes overhead. Why? No time now. One of the last defenders has popped up, taking aim at Dick. I jump over and around for a kick, followed by a solid torso punch. He's out. Another somewhere to my right. I turn to fight.

A pair of huge fists materialize out of the darkness. In a blur, my last two opponents go down for the count. 

The stranger turns and holds out one oversized hand. “Mr. Wayne,” He says in a massive baritone, “I'm John Renwick.”

I straighten. Renwick? From Hidalgo? This is getting more complex than the Riddlers’ crimes.

“I gather you're not responsible for this.” I nod towards the now-empty camp, but he knows what I mean.

“Only indirectly. I'm very sorry that your people got caught up in our difficulties. I came as soon as we were notified, but - it's a very large jungle. And at first we weren't sure if you were part of the problem.”

I shake my head in disgust. “Just answer one thing. Why would I even want to steal this Jaguar Tongue?”

Renwick seems surprised at the question. “So you can kill the Jaguar God and rule over the City of Gold.”

 

END CHAPTER THIRTEEN


	14. A Sudden Development

Nightwing bounds up. Granted, this Renwick doesn't act like a threat, but Dick will never leave me in a combat zone without cover.

“Ba....Bruce.”

“It's all right, Dick”, I answer calmly. Maybe, maybe not. But Dick doesn’t need me to tell him the difference. I note he relaxes, but stays at in good tactical position. Just in case.

The big man turns, signaling to two others who now emerge from the dark.

“All clear, Renny.” The shockingly high voice comes from a chest as broad as one of these oil drums. Not much over one in height, which puts his hands in the vicinity of his knees. The effect should be comical, but there is far more then the large caliber pistol in one of those hands that convinces me this is not an opponent safely ignored.

“The encampment would indeed appear universally vacated. An unadvisable commonality of purpose in their assault.”

A much more impressive voice, but from a figure so unimpressive that I had to look twice to confirm my first impression. As tall as myself, but with perhaps half the weight. 

I'd put both men in their late sixties. A healthy, athletic sixties, but still a bit older then your average jungle rat.

Renwick waves the two forward. “Permit me to introduce my associates.”

“Andrew Blodgett Mayfair.” Renwick gestures at the shorter man, then turns to the other. “William Harper Littlejohn.” He grins at me. “You can thank Johnny for your sudden rescue. He's our expert on the local tribes, so when this many men started moving through the green?” He leaves the finish to my imagination.

“This is Mr. Wayne, who came down from Gotham to - what was it - count our birds?” So Renwick’s tone indicates zero belief. It also indicates zero interest in disputing the matter. I can call myself an ethnologist, or an eggplant, and it would be all the same to him.

We shake hands all around, civil as a boardroom, but I notice all three men keep their guns.

The short redhead snorts, “Got some birds around here worth counting.”

“Please, Monk.” Renwick settles into a voice of accustomed patience. “ Mr. Wayne has his own young lady. I doubt he needs you to play matchmaker.”

I smile a bit at that. “Honored to meet you, Mr. Mayfair. This is my companion.” Dick moves up before I finish.

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Richard Grayson.”

Oh oh. ‘Richard’ means he doesn't trust this bunch. Could be worse. At least he didn't say ‘Richard John’.

*Thwwwwipp. Thwwwwipp.* Their helicopter is back. Moving slower this time, and lower. Coming in to land. We move over unasked to give it space.

“Ham, you miserable mouthpiece, yer late for the show.” Mayfair calls out over the clatter of the blades. The short mans words are rude, but his tone is rich with affection.

“Entirely anticipated.” The pilot responds in a clear Boston accent. “You never did have the manners to leave some for me.”

“Yo. Ya snooze, ya loose, Hambone.”

An astoundingly well dresses man steps out of the machine. I have known about jungle whites, but despite my rather rarefied upbringing this is the first time I have actually seen them worn. And worn well. Despite the ridiculous impracticality of his dress, this man has an air of dignity stronger than Alfred's. On him, starched pleats seem somehow natural.

“Theodore Marley Brooks, Mr. Wayne.” He looks me over with a strangely proprietary air. “ You are Thomas Wayne's son.” It isn't a question. “I knew your father when he was a Harvard.”

That earns another round of handshakes, and this time the firearms are reholstered.

Mayfair looks over the fallen foes, then nods at the skyline. “Was dat other chopper yourse, or did some of dese creeps get away?”

“Mine. Or at least my people.” I made a gesture to encompass the flight field. “I'm afraid we had to borrow the machine. Perhaps I might count on to you to return it?”

Littlejohn has been inspecting me like a field specimen. Now he turns to Boston companion. “Mr. Wayne’s vitality appears unimpaired. No indications of Goloka poisoning. It would appear our worries our apprehensions that matter were possibly unwarranted.” 

"No", Richard answers him. "That was me." 

Dick smiles at their error. Of course they would assume the 'playboy' Wayne would have been the one taken.

“We had observed an aquatic and arboreal egress?”, Littlejohn inquires, pulling a monocle out of his shirt pocket. 

“No, that was him,” Dick replies, pointing a thumb my direction. He leans back into the barrels. “I got the funny gas.”

“He gave you the antidote?” Renwick interjects with a touch of concern.

“Didn't need to.” Dick yawns. It has been a long day. “Must have been a light dose, because I woke up on my own.” Taking a deep breath, he stretches his shoulders. Perhaps he is still a bit stiff from his bonds. “Got out and caught up with Bruce and company just before this fight.”

Monk looks at the others. “Think we should get ‘im to Doc?”

“I don' need a Doc.” Dick shakes his head. “A nap, maybe... I'm getting tired, bu....."

Caught mid-word, Dick drops. I barely catch him before he hits the ground. I rip open his collar, feeling for the neck pulse. Still there, but uneven. I fumble for the med-kit. Atropine, or perhaps a barbiturate.

“Evacuation would prove an advisable operation.”

“Yep.” Monk adds. “Like Johnny says, we should get him to Doc.”

The words reach through my worry. “Doctor?” I growl. “Get him!”

On these men, the voice has no apparent effect. The one named Renwick hands me two pills. “Mr. Grayson will be fine,” he says. “Give him two of these and he can see Doc in the morning.”

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I pass the pills through Dick's lips, helping him to swallow. No time for inquiry, but if these aren’t a cure there will be hell to pay. And I'll know where to send the bill.

“Br…”

“I’m here.” I help him to sit. It's been a nervous few seconds, but the cure takes effect quickly, and Dick returns as swiftly as he departed. 

“Wha?”

“It's OK,” I reassure him. “The drug the kidnappers used has some side effects.”

“Bird”, he chokes out.

Damn, Dick's right. I hit my contact. “Bruce to Dinah - come in. Now!”

“Yeah?” Her voice is there, but I detect a sleepy edge.

“Dinah!” I continue “Hand over the controls to Doctor Jones NOW!”

“Sure, Bruce, but...”

“Now!” I interrupt. If she must pass out, it's best that she is not controlling an aircraft just over the jungle canopy. I overhear her mutter “Here Indy, you drive” before she returns to the line.

“Whaaa's the matter, Bruce?”

Yes, sleepy. Thank God Dick thought of that in time. I instruct her “There are side effects to the drug the kidnappers used, one of which is a sudden sleep. I have an antidote.” With which remark I glance at Renwick for confirmation, and am relived to see him nod. “We will catch up with you at...” I pause. Renwick will know his local resources.

“Hap'osil, perhaps? Or else...?” He hesitates as if considering his options, “Our place is a bit closer. That is, if you would care to be our guests.”

I accept. Not that we have much choice. I need medical care for Dick, and very likely for Dinah and the hostages as well. Besides, if they wished to harm us they certainly had every opportunity. I can see the guns on their helicopter. With an air assault, neither Dinah nor ourselves would stand a chance. Better, for right now, to go along.

I click on Oracle. At least she will know where we are.

“Jones can fly them there,” I answer him. “Give me your coordinates.”

He does so. A radio frequency for night flying. Night is darker in the jungle then in ‘civilization’. Even if they had a heliport with lights, it would be hard to see in this welter of layered green. Then the ‘address’. Longitude, latitude, and standard map grid. I go over the local map in my memory. Nothing. Those directions should drop us into the unexplored heart of the jungle. I consider that. Threat? No. Wherever we are going, these men are going with us. For all their unusual behavior, I do not believe they are evil men. They mean us no harm. The secret they keep must relate to whatever is there.

So, it appears that all my questions about the Hidalgo operation will soon be answered. But at what price?

 

END CHAPTER FOURTEEN


	15. Savage and the City

Mayfair and Littlejohn return, having checked the camp. “All empty”, the redheaded roughneck reports. “This is the lot of them. No sign of the boss, though.”

“The man in charge and the woman who was his pilot went running off into the jungle,” Dick explained. “No idea why. They were talking to me, a sentry came in, and poof.” He makes the universal gesture for 'vanished'. “Wish I spoke the local lingo.” He uses the pole to pull himself upright.

Dick is standing now, but perhaps a bit dizzy. At any rate, he allows me to help him into the helicopter. There's not enough room for everyone, but Brooks assures me that he and 'Monk' will be fine until a second chopper arrives to pick them up. Normally I might argue. Leaving civilians in a combat area is seldom wise. There is always the risk that additional criminals might arrive. Less wise in the darkness of the city-less night. Too much risk that the villains they thought gone were simply hiding in the shadows. But I have Dick to consider and his medical care comes first. Besides, these particular civilians have proven they can take care of themselves.

Renwick assures me that those two will have no difficult containing the prisoners until the men can be turned over to the authorities. It's reassuring to learn that our ‘rescuers’ intend to deal with the law. The way things have been going; it would not surprise me to hear someone suggest finding another cat and serving lunch.

I help settle Dick into the back row, and take the seat beside him. His color is improving, but I'm still worried. I watch the ground recede below us. Difficult terrain, shear rock on three sides. Not difficult to control if you know the job. 'Monk' and 'Ham' will hold it until the authorities arrive. But as the chopper turns, I do think I catch another flash of purple.

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Four of us in the chopper. The cabin is rather cramped - as even the best such machines are - but that is all to the good. It gives me an excuse to keep a hand as well as an eye on the boy. I trust his judgment in everything else, but when it comes to his own care? I’ve seen him take a bullet and keep fighting. He may think he’s fine, but I won’t be content until I have a doctor’s word on that as well.

One in the air, Dick seems to recover swiftly, and before long moves away to strap himself in his own seat. Not my ideal, but the correct procedure. I did insist that he always wear his seat belt.

Dinah's chopper catches up with us after about twenty minutes. I have a radio head-set and I turn it to their frequency.

“That you, Jones?”

“On track and following you.” he answers, his voice solid despite the static. “How much farther? We're at half tank now.”

Damn, I knew fuel would be a problem. The cabin is too noisy for conversation, but I shout at Renwick. “LONGER?”

He hand signs forty minutes, which I pass on to Jones.

“OK then. We can make it.”

“How's Dinah?”, I ask.

“Sleepy but not crashed.” I can hear her in the background, so he’s telling the truth. “I'm more worried about the Captain.”

“We've been promised medical support when we arrive.” Which we will get - one way or another. I still don't totally trust this Hidalgo bunch. Their behavior certainly indicates they are the 'good guys', but even so I send a code to Oracle with the new names. Lets see what she can come up with.

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Fifteen minutes more before Oracle is back in my ear.

“Bruce - I have those names.”

I say nothing, but send her the signal to continue.

“Doctor William Harper Littlejohn. No connection to the British Harpers. PHD's in geology and anthropology, major expert on Mayan culture until the sixties. Some of his opinions on the Aztecs were a bit unpopular. He left UCLA to 'write a book'. Never was published, and no known income other then the Hidalgo Trading Company. They list him as a 'consultant'. Don't know what he does, but it pays pretty well.”

“Doctor Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, aka Monk. Definite connection with the Salem Mayfair's. He's the black sheep of the family. Social news shows a real taste for bimbos until he moved to Hidalgo in 1962. Military service - made Lt. Col. before he mustered out. Somewhat lower rank then the others, but still? Quit to go to school. PHD from MIT, and another from Berkeley. Major industrial chemist, usually working as a consultant. Not cheap. One point of interest. WayneTech hired him for the Katchik Reclamation job. You weren't there, but Fox speaks highly of him.”

“Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Juris Doctorate. Swiftest shark Harvard ever produced. His reputation is legend. Appointed to the Federal Bench in 1960, resigned in 1962 to 'spend more time with his family'. That could mean anything but the truth. The man is an orphan. No particular friends except Mayfair. Looks like a blue blood, fights like a snake. Seven homicides - all dropped as self-defense. Watch out for the cane. He apparently carries a sword in it. Still licensed to practice law, but no known clients. Last case he took was for the Hidalgo Trading Company.”

She pauses a moment. “All three are American citizens. All three are permanent residents of Hidalgo. Other then that? Your guess is a good as mine.”

I can't risk a reply. They don't appear to know of this link, and I see no reason to tell them. So I just tap off. Oracle will understand.

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Sharp rock faces rise out of the jungle, reflecting the moonlight and the runner lights that otherwise vanish into the vegetable blackness. We thread through a narrow canyon, all but invisible even when known to be there. Thick, unbroken foliage. No warning of a city underneath. I assume Renwick knows his business as we start our drop through the leaves. It's a narrow passage, and he clips a few leaves, but he holds the bird steady.

I hope Jones really knows how to fly. With Dinah there would be no question, but this will be a tight landing for a civilian pilot with a larger craft.

I look out as the runners touch down. 

We land just down from the main pyramid. This must be the high rent district.

Interesting place - like Chichen Itza after urban redevelopment. Helipad is a large courtyard surrounded by banana and cane. Posts with carved loop-things on the long ends. Looks like a basketball court for a shot putter. The central trees are in pots. Urban garden? More likely camouflage. Someone has gone to great effort to make this place invisible. On the border, ticked under more cane, flares the cool ‘moonlight’ glow of mercury vapor lamps. Quite enough to see by, although the silver tint washes out the color of the scene. Probably not enough to be seen from above unless you already had a satellite fix and new precisely what you were looking for.

Someone went to a lot of work on this place. I don’t think it’s just George Villa. 

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Brooks has radioed ahead, and the medics are waiting for us on the pad. I offer Dick a hand down, but he ignores it. His strength is back.

*Thwipp. Thwipp. Thwipp.* That will be the other chopper coming behind us. I take a quick look. Plenty of room for them to land, even with this crowd on the field. I head over to them as the rotors slow.

Canary steps out first. She's looking pale, but still standing.

“Miss? Can you swallow this?” A young kilt-clad man with a western-looking medical kit has angled past me to reach her. I step back. He seems to know his job. “Once we get you to the clinic you will be better quickly.”

“The Captain.” Dinah waves toward the cabin behind her.

“We will help him.” Despite his unorthodox garb, the young man speaks with the 'doctor' voice taught worldwide. “Right now, I want you to relax so I can take care of you.”

I watch as the rest of his paramedic crew comes up. The Captain and his wife will be in good hands. I can go back to Dick.

He's sitting on one of the runners with a young lady kneeling in front of him holding his wrist. Another medic, according to the kit beside her. He's stripped off his shirt to accommodate the blood pressure cuff, and I can see a series of small burns down his back. Cigarette, to judge by the size and shape.

Mental note: When we catch the pirate boss, have a talk with the man. Privately.

The doctor smiles. “Your blood pressure seems to be holding, but...” I see him wince as she pulls off the cuff and carelessly scrapes one of the burns. She notices too. “You were hurt in the fight?”

“Pirates were lousy conversationalists.” Dick turns to show his back. ”Seemed to take it personally when I didn't want to talk to them.”

“Burns.” The medic presses lightly on the flesh beside the sores, checking the damage. “Second degree at least. Nothing major at that size, but all skin breaks are dangerous in this climate.” She paws through he bag, producing a small pump bottle. Zylocaine, likely, or some other topical anesthetic. “I want you in the clinic for at least 24 hours of hyperbaric, antibiotic dressings. How are your tetanus shots? I'll give you another anyway.”

Good medical advice, but I don't know these people, and until I trust them much more Dick isn't going anywhere without me. The thought must show, because General Renwick comes over.

He grins at the busy girl, who returns the smile. “My daughter, Mr. Wayne. Dr. Virginia Renwick.”

She looks at her father, and her smile widens. “Don't worry, Mr. Wayne.” She has a laugh in her voice. “I promise I'll give your son my very closest attention.”

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A noise behind me. While medics have been helping Allnut and Mrs. Captain, Jones has been strolling around like a tourist. No problem, I had considered, as long as he stayed out of the way. Wrong. Apparently there is a problem. At least for Littlejohn.

“Jones! You grave robber.”

“Littlejohn, you verbose thief!”

Apparently the two men know each other.

“I should have assumed a brigand like you would be involved in this!” Littlejohn stomps hard enough to pop out his monocle.

And are not friends.

“What? Just pissed because I got a look at your private Disney-dig?” Jones is all but snarling. “Must be nice. A hell of a lot easier to get artifacts when you can order them up like a catalog.”

“I never!” Littlejohn's bones are practically shaking from real rage. “You just refuse to give up your obtuse chauvinistic assumptions, you ill-taught ignoramus. My dissertations were all unimpeachable research, unlike your filmy adventure tales disguised as scholastic inquiry.”

“Research!” Jones makes that sound like a dirty word. “Who did you ask? Your girlfriend?”

“My *wife*! Whom at least I married, unlike your progression of bimbos. The singular salutary circumstance to affirm about those dense dames is that they aren't moronic enough to persevere in you presence to any appreciable extent.”

“Unlike your little princess? At least I don't get mine from their daddies!”

“Listen, you Aztec apologist…”

“Not to you, you made-up Mayan spin-doctor!”

I am enjoying their free and frank exchange of ideas when, at an instant, the field falls silent. Everyone has turned to watch a single man as he enters the square. Impressive, I grant. Dark blond and heavily tanned. My height plus some inches, and fit beyond the normal human range. Evidently in his sixties, but a most athletic sixties. He moves with a grace unexpected for his bulk. Not a Master, perhaps, but I wouldn't relish facing him in a fight. Neatly dressed in khakis and a plain white shirt.

“Gentlemen.” He nods at the two contenders, who now strive to look uninvolved. Then he walks up to me. “I'm Clark Savage Jr.” He holds out his hand, which I shake automatically. “Welcome, Mr. Wayne, to the City of Gold.”

 

 

END CHAPTER FIFTEEN


	16. In Savage Hands

“DOC!” An exclamation from several voices at once.

“Ah.” From the Bronze man, the sound is more a trill then a word. “Doctor Jones. How ... unexpected. I see you will have to be our guest for a while.”

A bit of an edge there, and I'm turning towards the voice when....

“Yes, dear.” A tall woman, fifty-something and well preserved. Five foot six, 140 pounds. Strong local feature with thick hair and perfect skin. Good body. Great legs. Intelligent eyes. The ‘I'm your wife’ smile that seems to stop most men in their tracks. Works here.

“Dr. Jones. Mr. Wayne.” She sends the smile around impartially. “We'll be delighted to have you with us while you recover. Renny called and told us what happened. Dreadful pirates.” Her voice takes the tone of a Gotham matron discussing the traffic problems. “I'm afraid we've been having a bit of trouble with that area lately. Just since the conquesta.”

Savages face gives no hint of his opinion, but he clearly has gotten the hint. “Mr. Wayne.” He holds out his hand, which I shake. “My wife, Mona Ixchel Kawil-Savage.”

So this is Mona Fiero. Perhaps a player. Perhaps a front. We'll see. I shake her hand. Jones kisses it. Player. Littlejohn is still fuming, but the topic is tabled for now.

She accepts Jones’ attention with the expected grace. “Charmed, Doctor Jones. Perhaps we could arrange a tour of the city later?” That's a promise that brightens his face. “We had best get back to the house if you want to rest and freshen up before dinner. I held it back since Renny told us you were coming.” She waves over one the hovering young women. “S’uuj, show our guests up to the house. I want to have a word with the young lady.”

“Dick...?” Who I am not moving without.

Savage catches my meaning. He kneels down beside the busy young doctor, sharp eyes taking in the injuries. “Grayson, is it?”

“Richard John Grayson, sir ” Dick turns to hold out his had, which the older man ignores in his concentration. 

“Second degree.” Savage gives rapid orders to Virginia Renwick. “Twelve hours hyperbaric, then a nu-skin dressing.” That done, Savage turns back to me. “No infection yet, Mr. Wayne. Your man should be up and around after breakfast.”

And that was that. I would have insisted on staying, but Dick indicated I should go with the program. At least for now. He had his transponder back, so we could find each other. Just in case. Dinah also got a trip to the clinic. That reassured me. Together, those two could handle anything.

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From the ground, this is even more obviously the high rent district. Only a short walk past the main pyramid, and we enter another courtyard with one long building wrapping around two sides, and a separate structure on the third. Large buildings. Palaces or offices - hard to differentiate. Stone. Three apparent stories. Square doorways with slanted tops. Lots of carving and too much polychrome paint. Vicious steps, but otherwise a reasonable architecture. If this is a private home, it makes my new place look like a studio apartment. A cramped studio at that.

Mrs. Fiero must have signaled, because a young lady appeared and cut me out from the crowd. “If you will follow me?”

Not a question. Once past the main door, we veer off from the others. I follow her down several hallways of angles and doors. Big place they have here. Frank Lloyd Wrong goes ethnic. New construction. The chisel marks are still visible on the stone. Not this week, but this century. Perhaps early this century, to judge from the gas lights, but not the 'untouched Maya" I expected them to sell me. Bad art. I'm no expert on MesoAmerica, but I've had a lifetime of 'art-as-wallpaper'. I recognize commission work when I see it.

After four turns and one unnecessarily steep staircase, we reach what is clearly a guest suite. My guide pulls back the curtain imitating a door and gestures me to enter. 

“I hope this will prove comfortable.”

Nice digs, if you enjoy the Olmec Moderne style. Geometric painted walls. Mission carved furniture. Bed, dresser, a window without bars. I stroll over for the view. Two story drop. Easy enough. This might not be a prison. A solid door would be nice, but I'm a light sleeper.

“If there is anything I can get you?”

“Richard Grayson?” I know he said to play along, but I will be far more comfortable once I know exactly where they have taken him.

She pauses a moment, puzzled, then - “Oh, the bodyguard. He's is the clinic, yes? K’usal will show you to there if you wish, but I'm sure the doctors will see your man is taken care of. Kin Kawil Savage told them too. So your servant should be fit by the time you are ready to leave. Even sooner. And you'll be quite safe inside the city.” Which for her is apparently answer enough, since she does not wait on my response before heading back out.

That's that - for now. I check out the other door. Bathroom. Old fixtures, but effective. No shower, but a huge sunken tub. Swimming space for two. Hot and cold taps, no jets. Still, it has possibilities. Even without Dick. Which I am. For now. But after a day in the jungle clean is temptation enough.

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I emerge to find my gear unpacked. Very proper. Alfred would approve. Likely searched as well, but there's nothing in it definitive. Suspicious, yes, but these people have secrets enough of their own. Unlikely they will go to press on pure speculation. Of course, I have kept the most interesting toys on my person. Not that I don’t trust my host, but...

I check through the drawers. Everything is here. What I brought on the chopper, and also what I left in the tunnel. That indicates Mayfair and Brooks have returned. Damn fast work if they got their prisoners into the hands of the local cops. Too fast. I think about that, than decide not to care. Not after what they did to Dick. I wouldn't feed the pirates to the snakes, but I won't be too outraged if someone else does. My belt is here, complete and in good order. Another indication that they aren't worried about a sudden departure. I decide to take it as a good sign.

Nothing more then I had in the jungle either. Another good sign. The River Queen is apparently undisturbed. Too early for the rescue crew to have reached the boat. I make a note to check with Oracle tonight anyway. Perhaps, under the circumstances, she could find a way to speed things up. I matters get nasty, I want my responsibilities in the clear.

I check the suit laid out on the bed. Somehow my hostess has managed to produce a dinner jacket that fits. Not Armanni, but not bad. I take that to mean that we are dressing for dinner.

I'm straightening the tie when a young man knocks on the door.

“Mr. Wayne. I'm K’usal. S’uuj asked me to show you to the dining room.”

“Actually, I prefer you to show me the clinic.”

“As you wish, but perhaps after dinner? The others will be waiting.”

“Perhaps now.” I insist. 

K’usal doesn't waste time in debate. We head off at a fast pace through the expected maze of carved corridors. The usual painted ghastlies. Snakes and cats and twisted hats, plus a few other themes I would rather not contemplate as household decor. Can't say I care much for the local art, but it should make it easy to retrace my path if need be. Eight turns and we reach a curtained door. The clinic.

A man in a kilt and white lab jacket is making note on a clipboard as we step in.

“Dr. Tukun?” K’usal half-introduces the man before fading back into the hall.

“Mr. Wayne.” I recognize the man from the landing pad. Which is where he must have learned my name as well. “Come for your lady? I was just about to release her. Captain and Mrs. Allnut we are keeping overnight, but they should be fine in the morning.”

That's good news. Indicates the drug reaction can be controlled.

“And Richard Grayson?” I'll use the name Dick gave them until told otherwise.

"The young man with the burns? He's in hyperbaric. Dr. Virginia has his case, but I assume we will release him tomorrow. Although I wouldn't advise demanding any serious work out of him for at least three days - perhaps a week. Not that you'll need him here. Our city is very peaceful.”

“Can I see him?” I ask.

“No reason why not.” Dr. Tukun indicates one of the curtained archways leading to a back room. “I'll tell your lady you're here to take her to dinner, and you can step into the lab and have a word with your man while she dresses.”

I ease though the curtain indicated. Another stone chamber, this one without the wall paint. Instead there was the metal and plastic ubiquitous to any modern hospital lab. Open ropes of cables, and along the far wall the black circumference of a man-sized pressure chamber. I find the small porthole and peer in at Dick's sleeping face. He looks comfortable. Should I wake him? No chance of speech, but a tap on the window would echo inside.

“Bruce?” Dinah is standing in the doorway. They have found her a dress as well. Something black and simple, and more then likely expensive. Probably this years fashion, although with women's clothes it is always hard to be sure, Today and half a century back have a habit of looking remarkable the same... until the credit card statement comes in. Whichever this is, it suits her well enough.

Dinah smile reassuringly. “I was with Dick when he went to sleep. He told me to tell you not to worry, and he'll see you in the morning.”

I give her the look. Dick is unconscious in a strange place and I'm not supposed to worry?

“I gave Mrs. Captain a transponder, and she promises to keep an eye on Dick, and to call if anything looks suspicious. ”

Which with a woman who makes me looks trusting means anything at all. I check over Dinah. She's looking alert. No remnants of her previous somnolence. Another good sign. I have our gear. If we had to, the two of us could evacuate even a sleeping Dick. Very well. While I'd really rather stay here, I give her my arm and we follow our guide onward to the dining room.

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Quite the assemblage there. Most of the men are in dinner suits, and all the women except Dinah are in feathers and jade. Must be the local fashion. It looks expensive and uncomfortable, which I've observed to be the primary requirement in such matters. The men are the same crew from out little jungle adventure. No sign of Mayfair or Brooks, but I'll withhold judgment. No sign of their boss either, which I'll take as a clue. 

Jones is in the corner, shooting dagger glances at Littlejohn who is pointedly pretending the other archaeologist does not exist. Much to Jones concealed discomfort. They seem to have found Jones a dinner jacket as well, but this one is somehow less comfortable then his garb back at Castillo de Perlas. He cheers up visibly at the entrance of Dinah. She drops my arm and heads over to chat while I accept a glass from Mrs. Fiero.

Bitter chocolate. Alkali tinge. Mild, but clearly coca. So this is kakaw? Better to carry then drink. 

We do the social round. Thomas Roberts is with a lady half his age that looks local. A daughter or a wife, and no polite way to ask about either. Renwick is with his daughter, who I remember from the landing, and a fifty-something European blond. Introduced as Patricia Renwick. His wife and Virginia Renwick’s mother, I assume. Another impressive woman. Tall, blonde, built. 

No real conversation. These people have known each other to long to actually talk anymore, and I am too new to have anything much to say. But we are all well bread enough to try for politise. Then Doctor Savage enters the room. Instant attention. It is good to be king.

“Bruce Anthony Wayne - of Gotham,” he picks me put of the room. “ I knew your father.”

Relevant to nothing, as frankly I did not. Perhaps something to him. I say nothing, as he continues. “Thomas Wayne was one of my most promising students, before he allowed himself to be distracted by a girl and...”

“Clark. " A warning note. Patricia Renwick. She turns her smile on me. “My cousin was lost his own parents rather young, and I'm afraid he can be a bit - casual - about other peoples connections. I'm sure your mother is a lovely woman.”

I get the impression the Savage is not used to being corrected, but it this instance he takes it. With much the same air of incredulity as a Great Dane being bossed by a Pekingese, but with compliance nonetheless. After a moment, he moves on to the other company and leaves the lady in possession of the field - or at least of me.

Cousin? That would explain her looks. And Renwick's connection. A clue worth having, and possible a source of information. I try out Dick’s puppy-dog look.  
“I regret neither of my parents are still living.”

“How sad for you.” Renwick says politely. “ But you have your son. He must be a great comfort.”

“Grayson is not my son, but ...yes, he has been a great comfort.”

“Not your son?” Mona Savage blinks. “I thought Renny had said...?”

“Radio error.” Savage smiles slightly at his wife. “This other chap is Grayson. His bodyguard and driver. Not his son.”

“A bit more my companion.” I correct mildly. “We’ve been together quite a few years. But I’d hardly think it proper to adopt him.” Raising my cup to my lips, I add. “If nothing else, I’m not nearly old enough.”

“Grayson? But...” Patricia Renwick looks distracted for a moment. “Who’s Who said you had a son named Jason?”

Damn. These people have done some research. Not nearly enough, evidently, but still.... I leave that for latter, and respond to the question asked. “Yes. Jason Peter Todd. But I.... lost him several years ago. He had gone on an adventure vacation in the Middle East, and was caught in an explosion.”

“Terrorism.” Renwick shakes his head at the word. “We hoped we had taken care of that during the war, but some people...." He gestures his incomprehension at the evil of untamed humanity.

Patricia pats my hand. “My apologies, Mr. Wayne. I did not mean to bring up bad memories.”

“And you did not.” I give her my most charming smile. “Parents keep only good memories of their children.” Which is bull, but my memories are no business of strangers.

“How true.” Her smile reaches her eyes. When I remember Tommy and Virginia and the troubles they gave us. She shakes her head, more in fond amusement then in regret. “But we are so proud of them now. Virginia is engaged to Captain Muwan, and I do so look forward to grandchildren, and Tommy? He’s at Harvard now. I do miss him, but he’s doing so well. It's a wonderful thing to be proud of your children.”

Seeing the pause in the conversation, Littlejohn steps up. “So what brings a sophisticate like you to our neck of the woods? Or should I say, how did you get suckered into another of Dr. Jones little 'expeditions'?”

“Would you believe it was my idea? A chance to 'get away from it all, as it were?”

“With him in the same room - I don't think so.” 

"Really" I give Dr. Littlejohn my best blank look. “Whatever do you have against Dr. Jones?”

“Other then his being a grave-robbing thief? And a plagiaristic opportunist?”

Patricia Renwick raises her hand apologetically. “Forgive Dr. Littlejohn's enthusiasm, Mr. Wayne, but you must have noted that Dr. Jones can be a dangerous companion. In this instance? Well, Renny was there. And the others. But I shudder to think what might have happened had they been delayed. No insult to your judgment in hiring Mr. Grayson, but one man is really no match for those pirates.”

Littlejohn looks like heed like to add something to that, but at a sharp look from Patricia Renwick he subsides. “I do hope the Doctor didn't promise you over much. Not only because of us, but because you can't find whatever it is you're looking for. Despite the legend, the Jaguar Tongue does not have magic powers or healing or immortality, or whatever myth Jones tends to be hawking this week. The dagger is just a dagger. Tremendous historical and social significance, of course, but only for us. In the outside world? A few thousand in gold and jade. Perhaps a few million from some collector. Nothing worth what Dr. Jones can cost you.”

“I can assure you, that was never mentioned.” I raise both hands, protesting my innocence. “I never heard of this Jaguar thing before I came to Santa Amoza, and to tell the truth I'd have been happier not to have heard of it then.”

Renwick gives me a black look for my flippancy, but his wife just narrows her lips. “I do believe you, but...”

“Please.” I give her my most charming and least sincere smile. “I may collect a bit, but I prefer to go through Butterfield and Butterfield - not through snakes and alligators.” After another tiny sip of kakaw, I add. “No offense, my dear lady, but to date this has not been the vacation of my dreams.”

 

END CHAPTER SIXTEEN


	17. Interesting Information

I am still considering a new topic of conversation when Mayfair and Brooks enter, completing this happy band. Given their slightly damp hair, I assume their return has been recent. Still, they too have taken the time to dress for dinner.

“...should have waited for them, you half-shaved chimp.”

“Like even you could talk Muwan into that jungle.” Mayfair reaches for a glass of kakaw and knocks it back in two gulps. “Those perps are cat food by now, and I am not giving up my grub to worry about Aztec turf.”

“Gentlemen.” One word puts an end to their squabble.

“Hi Doc.”

“Good evening, Doc. I see our American adventurer arrived intact.”

“Regrettably. What were you thinking of to invite Jones here.”

“Jones?” Mayfair's double take is theatrically comical. “Oops? Didn't see him.”

“Dr. Jones was in the other helicopter, with me.” Dinah strolls over, oozing blonde.

Monk beams with gallantry. “Worth it then, if we got you in the deal.”

Savage ignores that exchange, turning to Brooks. “I assume Captain Muwan has control of the prisoners.”

“Yes, but unfortunately to no avail.” The well-tailored man shrugs slightly. “ They were all local hires, basically ignorant of all points of interest. Bully boys hired in Santo Thomas and Porto Chapac. One exiled Aztec brought in as a guide, but he was no one. The type of idiot anyone would loose.” His face, as much as his words, expresses their insignificance. “ The boss and his lady were the only smart ones, and they were gone. Headed off into the jungle just after they picked up these folks. Never returned. May have gone back to the river, may have gone inland to deal with Tepiltzin. May be kitty chow. No way for us to know.”

“Likewise no profit in speculating why. At least not at this point.” Brooks reaches out for a cloth bag one of the servants has just brought in. “Whatever they did, they did it fast. Didn't stop to pack. We found a few interesting toys in their luggage.”

He drops a carved quartz skull on the table. Nice work. Very realistic. A bit heavy to haul around as a souvenir.

“Nice work.” The first comment is from Littlejohn. “Likely modern, since there are clear variations from the Anahuac style, but......”

“Since it isn’t Aztec, that doesn't mean squat.” Jones leans over, striving to look less interested then he is. “African, I'd guess. Low Ivory Coast. Post contact, perhaps, but not by much.”

Brooks ignored both men, speaking only to Savage. “I left it to Captain Muwan to make what use of the prisoners he could. He'll leave a man or two in case the leaders return, but that far in?” The dapper man shrugs, and we understand. A futile gesture, the prize not worth the risk.

Savage nods sharply, dismissing the matter. “No hint of the blade, then.”

“They were after it all right, but I guess they figured this Wayne fellow got it first.”

“Unlikely. Our guest did not reach Santa Amoza until the day after the theft.”

Renwick has been listening, and at that last comment looks a bit troubled. “If they were following Wayne, why did they kill the river people?

“According to our prisoners, they didn't. Spoke to a few of them, yes. Traded for fresh meat and information. They had a guide, as I said, but sometimes he wasn’t familiar with the upper stretches of the river.”

Renwick refutes that with a fierce grimace. “Bull. Do they also deny burning Wayne’s boat? Kidnapping his people?”

“They attacked the boat, yes.” Brooks tone is as measured as his expression is serious. “ But everyone involved insisted that raid was to search for the blade. When they did not find it, the woman told them to take hostages in the hopes of a trade.” He sets down his glass of kakaw and straightens a cuff before continuing. “ The pirates men do not deny killing some of the sailors. Still, all of the prisoners were vehement in denying more then that. They all insist that they did not kill the villagers.”

“Then who did?” I ask, keeping my voice impassive. “Only the pirates were ahead of us on the river. According to what the port boss told Captain Allnut, no other boat had started for at least a week.”

Brooks smile is faintly embarrassed. “They rather thought you had. That you were seeking directions to the hidden cities.”

“Hidden City?” I make sure my shock echoes in my voice. “The only city I was headed for was...”

“Oh no,” Patricia Renwick hastens to reassure me. “No one is accusing you, Mr. Wayne. You just don't have a reputation for... well.” 

She does not need to finish. The playboy routine has paid off once again. That I would row down a piranha infested river they will believe. That I would have some purpose in doing so? That they will not.

Littlejohn shoots a look at Jones, as if he would like to accuse him but can't quite make it stick. Even in his own mind. He settles for “There are still other possibilities.”

Brooks steers the conversation back on topic. “We did ask about the other American, that Walker fellow. They never heard of him.”

“ Yeh?” Mayfair snorts. “I still say the chums little ‘jungle hike’ is suspicious.”

“Perhaps,” Brooks concedes. “But as he has not been seen since Ciudad de la Selva, he must have dropped out of the contest. Or perhaps was never in it. I can't see one man managing that journey overland. Not unseen.”

“Then the pirates are lying,” Savage decides. “Hoping to avoid punishment by blaming another. Not unexpected for that type. But they were the only one with both the opportunity and reason for the slaughters.” 

All the men nod, accepting his declaration.

Savage turns to me. “I assure you, Mr. Wayne. This land is not as lawless as most would believe. Your assailants will be punished.”

I smile, looking reassured. “So the pirates were looking for this city. Does that mean they had the dagger all along?”

“Perhaps.” Savage considers for a moment, then adds. “The leader may have taken it with him in his precipitous flight. But they clearly do not have it now.”

“So you are still looking for it?”

“And we shall find it, Mr. Wayne. Wherever it is. Of that I do assure you.” His lips narrow slightly. “I had only hoped this would not be so unpleasant.”

 

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Mrs. Fiero takes that as a sign to start dinner. A direct way to put a better taste in our mouths. The delayed schedule imposed by our arrival means the company is hungry enough not to debate the point, even though I get the impression that Mayfair at least would like to continue the hostilities.

European service, very civil. Local food. Excellent, really. Habenero salad with sweet corn. Peanut coated plantains. More bitter coca and some little crunchy lizards roasted with chilies. They taste something like squab. Forget the dagger, what someone should steal here is their cook.

The wine is French and impressive. Dick will be gratified, as regrettably all his carefully selected bottles have doubtless been lost along with the River Queen. Perhaps broken, perhaps ‘salvaged’ - but either way vanished past reclamation. A smile at the server and a murmured work about my ‘long day’ gets me mineral water instead. Along with an approving smile. From the corner of my eye I note that our host has passed up the wine as well. He seems to prefer the local kakaw.

I am seated to the right of Mrs. Savage, making me tonight's guest of honor. Very proper. Alfred would approve. I wait until the general murmur of complements subsidies before easing to conversation back on topic.

With a smile at my hostess, I begin, “Forgive me for asking, but who is this Tepiltzin fellow? If he's behind all of this?” I let the question taper off.

“Behind some of it, at any rate.” Mayfair grumbles.

Brooks nods at that. “It can't be all his work, or no doubt we'd be in even more trouble then we are.”

Mrs. “Savage hesitates, then asks. “What do you know, Mr. Wayne, of the Jaguar's Tongue?”

I shrug. “You own it. The National Museum of Santa Amoza had it. You asked for it back. It was stolen before they could comply. Other then that?” I make a general gesture of irritated ignorance. “I know that my people are lying in your clinic and quite a few other people are dead.”

“Laconic yet veracious.” Littlejohn agrees. Looking up from where he has been futilely trying to claim Dinah’s attention while simultaneously ignoring Dr. Jones existence.

The Jaguars tongue is more then an artifact.” Mrs. Savage pauses a moment, clearly moved by memory. “ Think of it as you would the Swan Crown or the Stone of Blarney. It has history, yes, but it also has a current significance. It carries with it political power. It conveys legitimacy, authority.”

Which would match with the other explanations I have received. And explain many of the actions. I remember enough of Selena’s flirtation with the Swan Crown not to underestimate the very real danger such an icon can create. Even so...? I look at the rather impressive civil display. “You seem to be rather firmly in charge here.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Savage toys with her fork a moment before continuing. “ The City of Gold is currently at peace, thank the gods. But no peace is unthreatened.” She pauses at that, then adds “ And authority must sometimes be renewed.”

“Thus your need to bring the blade back.”

“Exactly.” She seems gratified by my understanding. “So we sent for it, and the museums agreed. After all, to them it was only a temporary loss. We would have sent it back.”

Littlejohn starts to comment, but then thinks better of it.

“But?” I ask.

My hostess sighs. “But before our representatives could reclaim the dagger, it was stolen. Apparently by a European professional, a Mr. Simon Templar. That much our people have discovered. Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately - before he could reach his employer the thief himself was robbed. A bit more roughly, I fear. Our men found him in the Santa Amoza morgue.”

My attention picks up at that. “Him, but not the Jaguar's Tongue?”

“Precisely. Mr. Wayne.” She pats my hand. “And therein lies the crux of the problem. Had we been able to locate the Tongue we could have retrieved it. But with so many candidates?”

“And now you know where it is?” I ask, truly curious.

“Possibly. Even likely. Because we know where is it not.” Littlejohn nods at that but says nothing. “It is in perhaps the worse possible place, but at least if Tepiltzin has it we have the chance.”

“And this Tepiltzin is?”

Littlejohn answers my question. “Ruler of Kukulkan, an Aztec city to the north. Ambitious man, much like his father.”

“I gather he doesn't get along with you?”

“The Aztec do not get along with anyone.” She takes a sip of her wine before adding, “This is not a new fight.”

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning.”

That earns me a small smile. “Twenty centuries would seem a bit much for one dinner,” she says.

“I’ll eat slowly.”

“Tepiltzin hates us primarily because we are Mayan.” Mrs. Savage thinks a moment, then adds, “ Although he has no great sympathy for the Aztec cities either.”

That earns a snort from Brooks and a nod from Renwick, but neither feels compelled to enter the conversation.

My hostess warms to her story. “When the flesh-eaters conquered the other cities of the people, the City of Gold was spared. Perhaps because they feared us more then the others, perhaps because the terrain is so difficult. And again, when the Spaniards came. With their allies they triumphed over the Aztec cities, but no one would even guide them to our land. Anyone fool enough to ask was sent north, into the land of the lawless men.” That thought widens her smile. I get the impression that Ponce de Leon is still remembered unfondly. “The centuries have been... not untroubled. All peoples have their troubles. But certainly troubled in an unchanging way. Until the strangers came.”

“The strangers?” I encourage.

“Tepiltzin’s father was ambitious. He desired to conquer what no one else could, so he made an alliance with an outsider, a man called the Leader. With the guns of the outside world he believed he could take the city. They would divide the spoils - or more likely he would betray his former friends- and Tepiltzin would rule as under-king in my fathers place.

Mrs. Savage’s expression darkens at the thought. “Whatever each man’s plan may have been, this Leader and his men came. But they had committed crimes in their own land, so Kin Kawil Savage and his followers came behind them.”

“Kin Kawil Savage? Your husband?”

“My husband now.” Mona Savages’ expression softens at that memory. “ Then, he was just... someone who came to help us. No one had done that before. “ She shakes he head and returns to the story. “There was a great battle, but in the end the outsiders were destroyed and the Aztec forced back to his own city.”

“And that is how your husband came to live here?”

“He and his friends.” Her glance around the room makes it clear who she refers to. “Not all at once, of course. There was work to do in the world. So I went to his world with him. But when my father died Kin Kawil returned with me to assure the peace of our land.”

“Which this Tepiltzin threatens?” I ask.

“Yes!” She takes another sip of wine. “The last time, when my father had died, Tepiltzin and his father again tried to claim the city. Captain Muwan’s father raised an army to stand against him, and Kin Kawil Savage defeated his champions at the ball game. We believed that would be the end of it. For the father it was. But now his son rules in Kukulkan, and the son is even more ambitious then the father.” Her tone holds a deep bitterness. “If he has the Jaguar’s Tongue, he could perhaps claim to rule our city.” Her faces flushes. “ I will not risk that! I will take this city to war before I would accept alien Gods.”

Savage glances over, alerted by the rising venom in her voice. “Peace, dearest. I will not let it come to that.”

Her smile is dazzling. “You have always been our champion. I believe in you.” Her champion, at least. I believe I can even see the edge of tears in her eyes. “Nonetheless, dear heart, the dagger in the wrong hands could upset the balance of power throughout the entire region.”

“Because whoever has it might... let me guess...” I drop my voice confidentially. “Kill the Jaguar God and rule over the City of Gold?”

 

END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


	18. Conversations

Desert is excellent, if unusual. Chili spiced chocolate brownies with a vanilla sauce. More savory then sweet, but quite tasty. I don’t generally indulge in deserts unless I’m with Dick, but as this is my vacation? I should have some enjoyment from it. So far chocolate seems to be all I’m getting.

Memo: Get recipe. See if J’onn likes it.

More light conversation, fortunately having nothing to do with cats, knives, or blood. Or at least only social bloodshed. The ladies go through their friend’s reputations with an ease any Gotham blue-hair would admire. Of course, I don’t know the victims here. Not that I care any more when I do. I get by with smiles and an occasional nod.

As we step from the dining room, I feel a touch on my arm. 

“Mr. Wayne?” Patricia Renwick, clearly wishing to talk.

“Please, it's Bruce.” I give her my best ‘playboy’ smile. “Only my employees call me Wayne. And not all of them.”

“I'm a bit more.. modern... then my brother.” She hesitates, then asks “ Should I..? Well… Is Miss Lance staying with you?”

That brings a more honest smile. “Thank you, but no. We really are just good friends.” I consider a moment, then add. “But you might want to place her next door to Dr. Jones.”

She blinks a bit at that. Jones is clearly not her brother’s favorite person. I have no idea how they are going to shut his mouth. Fortunately, unless they try violence, it’s not my problem.

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There is one problem I do have.

“Dr. Jones,” I call to him in the hall. “A word?”

He looks surprised but not offended. “Yes?”

“About a certain cup?” Even alone, some names are best unsaid.

He pauses, reluctant. “That's not - a good topic.”

“You've seen it.” It's not a question, although he's free to take it as one.

“Yes.”

Well, that would explain a lot. Not only the side effects, such as his apparent immunity to bullets and claws, or his unorthodox career choices, but also his fervent opinions about the knife. He knows the destruction the sacred can inspire. Likely close enough to have passed beyond temptation.

“And you actually...?” I think so, but how does one ask about such things?

“I was young and stupid.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. Then I understand. Too well. “I've seen it also.” At the memory I involuntarily cross myself, so strong is childhood training in the face of the infinite. And, to my shock, he echoes my gesture.

I see him search my face, hunting clues to - what? My intentions, or.... that other? Change the topic.

“Then you took this job…?” For once, I am uncertain just what to ask.

“For quick cash.” His shrug is both acknowledgement and dismissal. “Do you have any idea how much a full expedition can cost these days? I have to find...” He stops. Another unspoken name.

I hesitate, then.... “I can help with...”

“No.” The word has a finality solid enough to stop the Bat. I would correct him, but he cuts me off. “The answer is no! I don't know where it is, if I did I wouldn't tell you, and I *won't* help you find it. Not you, not Ra's, not....”

“Clear enough,” I override him. “You can stop looking.” Those words he did not expect to hear. But alone they are not enough. No choice for it. I continue. “It's over. I was the last.”

I can see the questions in his eyes, forming and vanishing faster then they can reach his lips. “How can you be…?”

“Alive? Human? Passably sane? As free as any other man in my social position?”

“Start with those.”

“I didn’t drink.”

He looks a bit impressed. I may have shifted category from crazy spoiled adventure tourist to ‘privileged-but-not-utterly-airheaded’.

“That covers the first three.” The unspoken is ‘why am I not locked up in some castle doing my best Gollum impression’ – given how all the previous defenders inevitably deteriorated into paranoia.

Inwardly I grant that I may be little better – but the cause is not a magic cup. Also, it’s not paranoia when one can produce the real enemies. Both my personas have a full slate. Not that such an explanation has ever proved effectively reassuring.

The cup-bearers are - no longer needed.” I search for words that will explain - but not explain. "The cup is....” I hesitate. “It is no longer in human hands.” As I turn away I hear him mutter 'Zaurial'. Wrong, but not a bad rumor to float about.

“So I’m not going to have to watch out for Nazis or Knight’s Templar as well as pirates and dig thieves…?”

“Not unless they are into Mayan knives.”

“That’s… good to know. Sort of a game changer but…” He swallows hard. Like a man remembering harsh whisky. “Good to know.”

I don't know what career path Indy will want now. No matter, we can consider that in the morning. It is time for bed. And, at least for tonight, for sleep.

 

END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: To truly get this you have to have read the ‘Grail’ TPB - in which Bruce Wayne is the last holder of the Holy Grail. In the end - he asks Superman to ‘put it somewhere’ secure.


	19. After Midnight

I try, but I can't sleep. Something about this scenario does not work. I think about that. Maybe talking to Dick will help.

A careful check outside the door. No visible guard. Which also means no guide, but I'm confidant I can find the clinic again. And no one said I could not go there.

I check the closet. Decent selection. I pick a black sweatshirt to go with my dinner pants. Unsuspicious and damn near invisible. I follow the curves I remember. The wall pictures make a good guide. Wish to hell I could read them. Likely Jones can. Which reminds me of the papers I picked up back at the camp.

Memo: See Jones for translation ASAP. Hate to ruin Dinah's sleep, but she'll understand.

The clinic is empty. At least this section. 

I look in. Dick is sleeping. I tap on the glass

“Dick?”

The pressure chamber is soundproof, but he can read my lips through the glass. Better. No need to risk the noise.

“Huh? Hi, Bruce. You OK?” he lips back.

“I'm fine. Natives seem friendly. How are you feeling?”

“A hundred times better.” Dick raises himself to his elbows to give me a clearer look at his face. “Doc says I'll be out in the morning. But you didn't come for that. If we don't have to roll now? Then sit. What's on your mind?”

“Just a mystery. Something doesn't fit.” I pull over a chair and sit as close as possible to Dick’s window. “Here's what I know so far. Someone - presumably an Aztec ‘king’ named Tepiltzin - hired Simon Templar to steal the Jaguar’s Tongue. Tepiltzin wants it because the thing has local ju-ju. Templar succeeded, but was killed himself, presumably before delivery. Or perhaps after.” I don’t like that second possibility, but I must consider it. Some crooks aren't honest with paying their help, and dead men make real quiet debtors. The Saint has a tougher reputation then that, but everyone makes mistakes. 

Dick smiles encouragingly and I continue. “Artifact vanishes. Several parties’ head down the river. Us, the pirates, that tourist Walker. That's where it goes off. Drax vanishes. His crew shows up. None of it hangs together.”

“Pirates claim they never touched the village. Savage says they are lying. I'm not sure.” Which is frustrating as hell. I wish I could pace, but then Dick could not ‘hear’ me. “But if the pirates didn't burn the villages, then who did? And why? And what the hell happened to the pirates, if it wasn’t you, me, or this bunch?”

I rest my head against the window for just a moment. Dick always helps me with these things. His very presence helps me. And now, while he is near, he is still apart.

He must understand, because he brushes his fingers against the glass. It touches my heart - almost as much as if he had touched my cheek.

I lay my hand on the glass, fingers matching his.

“So.” I shrug. “That's my question.”

Dick thinks a moment, then mouths, “Wrong question.”

“What?” In my shock I almost speak out loud.

“First question, Bruce, is who killed The Saint.”

Shit! Yes. If? “Thanks Dick.” I pat his window. “You get healthy, I'll see you in the morning.”

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I make my way back to the visitor’s wing unnoticed. Which is good, because I’m not in the mood to waste mental energy on making excuses, or worse yet being civil.

Dr. Jones's room should be the second past mine. No inside doors in this wing. I ease past the heavy cloth hanging that does duty without a ripple.

He is in bed. Good. I didn’t feel like going looking for people at this time of night. I light one of the flat vegetable oil lamps. Not as suspicious as my own flashlight, and we will need some light for what I need done.

“Dr. Jones.”

“Huh?” The low murmur comes not from Jones but from his blonde companion.

“Sorry, Dinah.” Her robe is over a chair, so I hand it to her. “I have a few questions.”

Jones blinks at the light. “Won’t it wait until morning?”

“That's the first question.”

“Wha...?”

“Give me everything you know about the Aztec and Mayan politics.”

He sits up against the headboard. “Got a few years?”

“Condense it.”

“One word? War.”

“Always?”

“Mostly always.” He runs his hands through his hair, brushing the shaggy bangs back from his forehead. “Two groups too near. I wouldn't count on them to agree on anything. Religion, government - which in this part of the world is pretty much the same thing - right down to the hats they wear. Aztecs and Mayans just don't get along.”

That would match with Mrs. Savage’s attitude, but... “Odd.” I consider his words. “Given the long history of the area, and their mutual enemies, I would think they could have worked out an accommodation by now.

Jones shakes his head. “Two cities might make a treaty every so often to pound on a third party - whichever of the ‘jungle’ tribes they got the urge to rob or enslave - but it never lasted. No way to make it last. No common gods, for all they *sound* identical, and no civil law at all. And hostages only last until kings’ change or the old king decides he doesn‘t really like his kids that much after all.

“So a treaty with this Tepiltzin’s father...?”

“Was valid about till he was out the door. Maybe.”

“That’s insane.”

Dinah looks at Jones, then at me. “Ever heard of Yugoslavia?”

I ignore her. “So say that Mrs. Savage is right about this Tepiltzin fellow? That he's out for power?”

Jones snorts at that. “Know someone who's not? Present company only excluded out of courtesy.”

“Then this Jaguar thing could get it for him?”

“Maybe.” Jones reaches for his pants. “Look Wayne. I don't know how much you know about MesoAmerican culture...”

“Less then you.” Which is why I hired him. Obviously. 

“Which is why I'm here. Right.” He reaches for his shirt, which is currently on the floor, then decides against it. “I don't know much about local politics. And things can change over a few centuries. But this deal now - that makes me nervous.”

That get’s Dinah’s attention. “Should we leave? Tonight?”

“As soon as possible.” Jones answers. “Follow me now. This Savage fellow is the local king - which translates to local god. Not too sure how he got the job - likely by marriage - but he's got it. He's got some sort of political crisis going on.” I see him consider his whip, but after a few seconds hesitation he leaves it on the nightstand. “No shock there. I've never seen a government without one. Get four people together for bridge and you get dissidents. But for this crisis he sends for the Jaguar's Tongue. Bad sign. I don't want to be anywhere near the type of political problems you settle with a knife.”

Dinah’s listening. Carefully. She’s not quite going for her suit, but I catch her checking out her pendant and earrings. Which means she’s taking Jones very seriously. For all her purported bad judgment in boyfriends, Dinah has always been a very good judge of allies. That much I learned in our JLA days. If she’s listening - so should I.

Jones continues. “The Jaguar Tongue is a sacrificial blade. You have to figure he's planning a sacrifice. Probably animal. The avatar of the God. That is statistically most common, but...”

“You mean...” Dinah is clearly shocked. “People?”

Jones sidesteps the question. “Let's just say my hankering for divinity has been permanently cured.”

“OK. Next question.” I pull out the paper I took from the Pirate leader’s desk. “ What about this?”

“Interesting.” Jones moves closer to the light. “A codex. Where did you get it?”

“I found this is the pirate chief’s tent. Can you read it?”

“Read? Not exactly.” Reaching into the free-standing closet, Jones begins rummaging through his jacket pockets. It takes a few seconds, but he manages to produce both a penlight and a jeweler’s loupe. “There's a bit debate as to how far the locals were literate at all. I mean, walls full of dates don't exactly add up to Shakespeare.” He unrolls the paper on top of the desk, weighting the edges down with various handy knickknacks. “They did have these picture scrolls, and some ability to post simple narratives. So-and-so was born. So-and-so was married. So-and-so conquered such-and-such in the year whatever. But to what degree that constitutes a widespread functional literacy...”

“Can you read it?” I cut in. That is the question that matters now. He can annoy someone with the lecture later. Preferably someone else.

“Well... interesting.” Jones uses his knife to scratch a bit at the paint. “First, this scroll is recent.” He rolls the parchment between his fingers. “This century, maybe this decade.”

“Go on.”

“It's a map of some sort.” He floats his finger just above a line of squared-off symbols. “Not geological, more like a travel guide. But definitely instructions on how to get *somewhere*.”

“Here?” Dinah bends over his shoulder to get a closer look at the pictures.

“Possibly...” Jones taps his fingernail on several bright cartoons. Monkeys, snakes, birds... even one spotted cat. “Without knowing the starting point and local landmarks, it's hard to be sure, but...” He hesitates, then mutters, “not quite...although maybe....” He squints at the icons, running his fingers down the row like a child learning to read. “This is very interesting.”

“Yes?” I say.

“These symbols are not Mayan.”

“Aztec, then.” Not too surprising. And it would confirm that they are behind this.

“No, actually. Inca.”

“Christ.” The last thing this little tangle needs is another pack of players. Where do they fit in? I thought Inca’s were Aztec. Or something. More specifically, I hadn’t though about it. My business is not conducive to spending time speculating about dead governments. I have enough trouble with the living type. “How do Inca’s fit in to the local scheme? Aztec allies?”

“Not a chance.” Jones shrugs. “ Same as with the Mayans. Local politics is real simple to follow. It‘s a clear game of all against all. The ones that were still around after the Aztec conquests happily joined Cortes in wiping Montezuma and his troops off the face of the earth.”

Dinah blinks at that. “I thought it was the Spanish guns that...”

“Guns helped. Horses helped. Disease helped. Montezuma being an idiot *really* helped.” That last line is said with a snort. “But only in comic-book fantasy can 160 men take on an army and not get their asses handed to them. Cortez had plenty of local volunteers.”

I get the impression he doesn't think things have changed. Bad news for the stability of the region. Up to this point I haven’t taken this Jaguar nonsense seriously, but another Santa Prisca revolution? When the whole region is just recovering from the last crisis? Not that I have proof of anything that wide-spread. Yet.

Perhaps I should have Barbara run some scenarios. Check the risk factors. I’d ask Jones, but he has clearly vanished into the haze of theory. 

“This is very interesting.” Jones gestures at the codex. “If you don’t mind...”

“No, Dr. Jones.” I’ve seen this distraction in Carter on occasion. More trouble then it’s worth to draw him back to reality. And I’m done with him for now. “I'll leave you to your reading.” 

I nod to Dinah. She’ll tell me if he comes up with anything more. “I think a short walk might help me...think.”

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I do walk. Mostly to clear my head, but also to check the layout of the city. If we do need to leave suddenly, I want to know where we’re going. The moment I see starlight I send a pulse off to Oracle, confident she will have it tracked and plotted within the hour. Sent up to J’onn at the Lunar tower within two. Which means Savage’s Hidden City is considerably less hidden then before. Not that it should matter. Oracle’s entire reputation depends on her silence, and J’onn ethics tend to discourage unrequested interference. Fine with me. I have no desire to save the world - or even this over-foliaged corner of it. That’s Diana’s job. I just want to be confident I can save my own people if required.

The courtyard is darker then when we landed. Even the mercury vapor ‘moonlight’ lamps have been turned off. Wise. Their sky cover is good, but nothing is impenetrable. Even a faint illumination might attract attention over time.

I snap a few photos in infrared. Sent over to Oracle they will help coordinate any removal plans - if we in fact need to call for a way out. That is my first and most important decision.

The main courtyard is empty. Both helicopters are there, but not guarded. A good sign if it marks their trust. Less good if it signals their confidence. I leave the question for now. No evidence, and either mind set can be used in our favor. If a quick and unannounced exit proves necessary. Which – healthy caution aside - it may not. Because there is also the possibility of waiting through the week and saying farewell like a gentleman. Not my usual style, but it does have the advantage of tact.

I turn back.

The second courtyard is equally deserted, but not as dark. A few lights shine on the first floor. They send the silhouette of a male figure faintly against the heavy homespun curtains.

I consider eavesdropping, but between the heavy draperies and bad angle I hear nothing. Very well. There’s always the direct approach.

Mussing my hair and rumpling my sweatshirt, I quietly open the main door and stroll casually down the hall. A quiet tap in the doorframe beings a quick answer. “Come in.”

A library. Decorated in the classic style. Leather chairs and ceiling-high shelves. Old photo’s filling the wall over the desk. Not quite the oasis of untouched books-by-the-yard of Drake’s house, but not Dick's cheerful trove of paperbacks either.

I check the population. As I had hoped. Mine host. Along with Mayfair and Brooks. Interesting confirmation. Despite Renwick's obvious authority and family ties I did get the impression that these two were ‘closer’. Not that I could point to any distinction. Just an impression, but I have learned to trust my impressions. Also Dr. Littlejohn, who is looking busy over at the desk. He has a bit of that glazed look I just saw on Jones. A good indication that they are *not* talking football and girls.

I step into the room. “Doctor Savage?”

“Please.” He gestures at the sofa. “Call me Clark, or Doc.”

"Doc then." No way am I calling him Clark. I smile and try to look harmless.

“You’re out late.”

“I couldn't sleep, so I took a walk.” I look all around the room, but no one here is talking except the Doc. “I hope that’s all right?”

“Of course, Bruce. You’re our guest, not a prisoner.” He smiles, and I can feel the rest of the crew relax. Not that they give any visibly sign, but the lessening of tension is still there. Another case of bad and good signs combined. “I hope that wasn’t what was making you uneasy,” Savage continues.

“No, just…” I consider how to phrase this and stay in character. Perhaps a bit of need for reassurance might be called for. “It has been a rather...eventful day.”

“Regrettably.” Brooks picks the coffee - or in this case kakaw - pot off the warmer. “I fear you got caught up in our local problems.”

“Well, yes.” I smile politely as I wave off another cup of kakaw. Cocaine – even the mild local variant – is not the wisest prescription for insomnia. And I will want to sleep tonight. Probably. “I don’t want to intrude, but... I am rather concerned. For my people, and...”

“Yes, of course. But your lady friend is fine, and Virginia assures me that your man will be back to work by morning.”

“Yah.” Mayfair heads for the bar. “ Your folks are safe here. No way the bums gonna take this city.”

“A great comfort. And I do appreciate your assistance. I truly do. But...” I smile at Mayfair, who has produces a much more acceptable glass of fruit juice. “At some point I do need to get back to Gotham. And return the captain and his wife to their boat. Which looks like a bit of a jungle hike.”

Savage answers politely. “Normally I’d suggest you simply return the way you came, but under the circumstances?”

I nod. “I agree. I may hope we caught all the pirates, but without more assurances? Another route might be safer.”

“Through Aztec territory?” Brooks sips his kakaw. “Not advisable even in peacetime, although we can usually make some arrangements.

“Just not with a dame.” Mayfair pours himself fruit juice as well. “Not with Tepiltzin on the war path.”

I set my voice for a point somewhere between flattered and confused. “Surely there is some other way out?”

Mayfair shrugs. “Sure, by air over the mountains to Ixchel, then ride in to Hap'osil.”

“That could be a problem.” Brooks looks at Doc Savage, seeking either direction or, or likely, permission. There are very clearly secrets in this room. And Savage is the man who owns them.

“We control this city, and the territory up to the Pauahtun Mountains.” Savage rubs his chin. “ After that the land is held by the various Indian villages. None of them significantly armed. They are normally kept fairly peaceable, but...” He shakes his head, and I am reminded of the mad destruction of the last two days.

“You guys could go by boat to San Luis de Tula.” Mayfair offers. “That’s a Spanish city, and maybe more stable. Unless someone weird gets the knife.”

“But the water wanders through disputed territory. Captain Muwan reports outbreaks of violence along the border. New bodies have been found in the mountain shrines.” Savage shakes his head. “Some of the river tribes have managed to acquire guns from the Europeans, despite our rulings against it. Even in good times you would want a strong company to protect the lady. While this city is under threat I can not spare the troops to escort you out that way.”

“I find it hard to accept...”I hesitate, wanting the softest phrasing, “This one incident could throw everything so...off balance.”

Brooks fills another cup with kakaw. “While the Jaguar is roaming, everything is uncertain.”

Savage accepts that without comment. “Even Hap'osil might be in question, although I believe we can hold it. At least until someone else has the dagger.”

“No offense, Mr. Wayne.” Savage accepts the biter chocolate. “Renwick was quite impressed by your prowess. And I’m sure your man is equally competent...whatever Littlejohn might have to say about your taste in employees.” The last, a clear reference to Jones, is spoken with a rather fond smile at Littlejohn. The older archeologist smiles back, clearly more flattered then offended.

“A singular lapse, unequivocally.”

“I don’t doubt that Thomas Wayne’s son can take care of himself. Your father was always... capable. Exceedingly so.” Savage sips carefully at his drink. “I had great hopes for him, before he chose to return to Gotham, and I see much of him in you.” He pauses for a bit before he adds, “It is in days like this that I miss ... lost allies. Thomas among them.” 

Savage’s eyes pass over the photos on the walls. Dozens of black and white prints isolated in their narrow frames. Clusters of young men in their pressed khaki’s and white shirts. Ghosts of another, braver age. None I recognize, but I have had no chance to examine them closely. Perhaps my father in his youth is there among the hundreds of grey-toned faces. Given the chance, I suppose I will check. Although I wonder if my child’s memories would recognize him? When I think of my parents, I envision the formal portrait painted just before their... deaths. I don’t think of them as young. As adventurous. As friends. As lovers before they were parents. But I know they were. Must have been.

Savage must remember Thomas Wayne’s real face, because his eyes focus without hesitation on a picture in the upper left. Savage and several young men in the white jackets worn by doctors before the invention of ‘scrubs’. The third from the left might be my father… I think.

“Your father was a good man,” my host continues. “A good friend. A brilliant student. I regret losing touch with him. More so now, of course. Perhaps I should have made the opportunity to meet his son, but...”Savage smiles faintly. “Time is the one thing that paupers all of us.” His eyes drop. “Now there is only enough time to do what I must to keep peace.”

“Don’t worry, Doc. We’ll find the knife.”

“No way were’ gonna let that Aztec bastard ruin all you’ve worked for.”

“I trust you, Monk. You and the others have been my strength for so long. But now... The jungle is burning. There are bodies found in the river. We do not hold the blade.”

Very sweet - but none of my business. I cut to the chase. "So what you're telling me is, until you have that ... thing back in the Museum, people are going to keep killing each other if they have to do it with sticks and stones. And while they fight, I’m stuck."

The bronze man gives me a glare that is intended to be repressive. No doubt it has proved effective in the past, but not in this instance. I have stared down Saint Michael at the gates of heaven.

It is Dr. Littlejohn who finally answers. “Succinctly affirmative. The bladed relic is a catalyst for machinations, and only public exhibition assures societal security.”

“That way, Wayne”, the man called Monk adds, “Folks here know what other folks don't got.”

Which, when translated, leaves only one question. “Then why the hell did you ask for it back?”

“Because, Mr. Wayne, of the equinox”, Brooks replies. He gives his words that tone of self-evident truth that the best lawyers cultivate. I find it even less effective then the glare.

Savage adds in explanation. “Sotz Ix is a sacred date on our calendar. The only day for the Jaguar sacrifice.”

"One question. A calendar date tends to come around every year. Why this one?"

He controls his face, but not his eyes. Which means, of course, that he controls nothing. I can see him deciding whether he should answer, and if so how. A calculation, then: “Perhaps the date will have other years, Mr. Wayne." He looks at something far beyond my sight. “It is the last year for me.” He pauses. “Cancer, Mr. Wayne. Fully metastasized and quite terminal.”

“Your Doctor.....?”

“I *am* my doctor.” Savage sounds faintly offended at the question. “I give myself three months, nine at the outside.”

“So that's... It's a succession thing.” I take a sip while I think. “You will bring in a new ruler for your 'Hidden City of Gold'.”

“Precisely.” Savage’s expression is not so much pleased as ...gratified. The teacher with the competent student. “But it appears the Aztec have a difference of opinion as to who that new ruler should be.”

I start to say something- what, I’m not sure - when he cuts me off.

“If you were a father, Mr. Wayne, what would you not do to ensure the future of your son?”

That gets me, because I am a father. Not Dick, although so often people seem determined on that mistake, but for Jason? I have even considered wresting the Lazarus pit from Ra's, despite Talia's insistence that Jason’s wounds made it quite useless. If the day comes when I plot the Joker’s death, it will be not for his crimes against humanity, but because I cannot forgive him that single loss. Jason would have had Wayne Industries. He could have had the world.

That gets me, because I am a son. All these years lost, and I still have a hole in my soul where my father is not. I remember toys, and ponies, and trips to the movies. I remember hours and days spent with me when – as an adult – I know he had other demands. What will a father not give his son?

I'm not over fond of the thought of killing a cat, but if it will stop a war - OK. Tabby will have to go. I just hope Selina never finds out about this.

“So - if I understand you right.” I pause, surveying the faces around me. “You get back the dagger. You do this ... ceremony. The Jaguar’s Tongue goes back to the museum. Then everyone settles down for another century or so.”

Clear enough. I can’t say I feel particularly enthusiastic about this mission, but I can live with it. At least, I can live with it a lot longer and easier than I will with the memory of those burned bodies by the river.

“OK.” I answer. “ Where do we find the knife?”

 

END CHAPTER NINETEEN


	20. Servant Troubles

Breakfast is served in the smaller dining room. A buffet for the family and ‘friends’. Quite the proper country house party, if you overlook the occasional fried lizard. It’s almost over before Dr. Virginia Renwick bothers to mention that she has released Dick from the Clinic. I meet up with him just past the entrance to the second patio.

“Dick!” He comes into my arms and for a moment we say nothing more. Then I step back, taking in his sharp eyes and bright smile. Obviously the night’s rest has agreed with him. “You’re looking good. You missed breakfast, but...”

Grinning, Dick pulls me into the shade of one wide pillar. “Nope, I ate.”

“Hospital food as bad here as home?” A shared joke, because except for once instance we have always had the good fortune to recover under Dr. Leslie’s care. And Alfred’s cooking is invariably excellent.

“I couldn’t say.” He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand. ”But the kitchen is pretty good.” After moment he adds, “As long as you don’t mind the corn without the flakes.”

“What!” I am so shocked I forget to control my voice. “The kitchen! I don't know what these people...”

Dick cuts me off with a finger to my lips. “Let it go.”

I kiss the finger pad - just so he knows I’m not ignoring him - then continue. “It was bad enough last night when they assumed you were my son, but...”

Dick stops me this time with a kiss. Considerably more effective. He was always a good judge of tactics. The after-effect quiets me long enough to let him say “Alfred eats in the kitchen.”

“Alfred let’s us eat in the kitchen too,” I remind him. “Not only...”

“Bruce, it's better this way.”

“What? That they think...”

“Exactly what we should want them to think.” He gives a low snort, then turns serious. “What? You think I'm going to be upset by the social snobbery of a bunch of past-sale-date gajae?”

“But...”

“But this way,” his voice is firm, “we get the gossip from both ends.” A quick kiss on my lips effectively silences my rebuttal. “And now I can be a real hard-ass about keeping you in sight. Just doing my job, you know.”

“You’re right,” I concede, returning the kiss with considerable interest. “As always. I just didn't plan on us spending our vacations sleeping in different buildings.”

“Don't worry about that,” he whispers, brushing his lips against my ear. “I told Doc Virginia you were a real paranoid. Not comfortable at all unless I was right at hand.”

“Demanding boss, am I?”

“Total tyrant.”

“Well, then I sure hope I'm paying you enough.”

“Oh, don't worry.” His low chuckle vibrates against my skin. “You'll pay - one way or another.”

“With you?” I allow myself one more second of warmth before I step back into the passageway. “I always do.”

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We head back to the guest wing, Dick listening carefully as I brief him on everything I have learned. 

He returns the favor with the bits he picked up along with his fruit and porridge. He has the whole blood drenched history of this place, from Savage’s arrival just after the Second World War, to his use of the abundant local gold to finance his science-hero career, to the eventual marriage to a local Princess which secured his claim to local divinity. Quite the story. I suppose by his era’s standards it reflects well on him. Courage or something. I don’t find it particularly endearing.

Still, Dick ‘s story does confirm what Savage told me about the Jaguar’s Tongue and local power. According to popular opinion, if the ritual blade isn’t back in time, the natives believe they’ll be seriously in trouble. And they are...well, not particularly endearing either. But they are probably no worse then any other population. They honestly don’t deserve a war.

At least Savage does seem willing to trust me. Why, I don't quite know. Perhaps because of my father, who he seems to remember fondly. Perhaps because of Renwick's report. Perhaps just because I’m ‘right’ for his fantasy of the romantic adventurer. Whatever his reasons, and they are likely wrong ones, it’s still the best decision he could have made. Because if someone is going to get that benighted artifact out of Aztec hands without setting this jungle on fire? Well, I don’t think it’s going to be him.

I consider what Dick told me about the situation, contrasting it with Savage’s history. They match well enough - I think. We’ll have to arrange another conference with Jones. Neither he nor Dinah came down for breakfast. Probably sleeping in after staying up all night - and not for reasons Dinah would appreciate.

If we have to move quickly? Not that I think we will, but...? Dick is ready. He’s my most important backup. Dinah can work on low sleep, if she has to. I’d appreciate Jones with me as well, but if we have to leave him we can. Littlejohn is opinionated, not incompetent. As for the rest of Savage’s men? They did well in that one fight. They’ve had years to become a team. Unless they’re totally adverse to direction? I’ve had worse.

Of course, when where and if we move depends of Captain Muwan and his spies. An unknown, but I’ll do Savage the courtesy of assuming his people are competent. At least until shown otherwise.

I’m not looking forward to another jungle hike, but if the knife is in Yankuikan? Helicopters would be too noisy. No chance for anything but an open battle, which is what I’m trying to avoid. VTOL? They don't have one, and if I brought one in I doubt they’d have space to land it. Not here, where at least some architectural concessions have been made to the modern world. Absolutely not in the maze of stone walls I am envisioning as Yankuikan. Body plane? Flight pack? Not a chance. Not without blowing my cover, which for these people’s sake is not really worth it. And if I did have to? Then I might as well call in the heavies and just sit back.

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Dick is still unpacking when Patricia Renwick bustles into our room. “Really, Mr. Wayne. I'm sure your man would be more comfortable if we found him a room.”

I smile blandly. “I'd prefer him here. With me.”

“Here?” she blinks, put out but not quite with grounds to be offended. “We didn't build this wing with valet quarters...”

“So?” I slip into well-practiced incomprehension. “Grayson can stay in my room. He has before.”

“There really isn't a suitable second room nearby.” By now she is speaking more to herself then to me. “Well... I suppose... I could have K’usal set up a cot.”

“That would be acceptable,” I concede.

“What?” My remark brings her back to an awareness of her audience. “You don't need to go to that sort of extreme, Mr. Wayne. I assure you, in this city you are perfectly secure.”

“As my boat was?” I slip an edge of abused entitlement into my voice. “Or my Captain? No offense, my dear lady,” I make the endearment slightly less then endearing, “but the local law enforcement seems to leave something to be desired.”

She gives me a look somewhere between a put-upon hostess and a put-out mother. “Don't tell me you expect him to sleep on the bare stone at the foot of your bed?”

“Oh no,” I smile innocuously, “I think I'll loan him a pillow.”

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY


	21. Strange Bedfellows

It only takes a few minutes to upload my requests to Oracle. Primarily information on the new list of local players, but also a request that someone take a second look at the Templar case. She promises Cachiru. Good. By this time tomorrow I’ll know the ancestry of every *fly* that buzzed that corpse.

Dinah missed breakfast, but she has the good sense to be up and dressed in time for morning briefing. Not that I’d normally refer it this as anything that formal. Dinah is sprawled over the recently erected cot, tossing my much-maligned pillow back at Dick and making rude faces as I recount the morning’s stories.

“And she actually brought in a bed? You think..?” The pillow, in return flight, cut off her words.

Dick rolled on the other bed. “I don't think they know what gay is.”

I stifled my own mental retort of ‘not even moderately happy’. Dick has a way of bringing out the punster in the best of us.

“Probably right.” Dinah sent the pillow spinning back. “Did you see my room? Twin bed. They don’t even know what sex is.”

“Oh they know.” The pillow went high, but Dick managed to snag it before it went out the window. “They just don't let it interfere with their little fantasy.” He clearly considers a return toss, then stuffs the pillow behind his neck instead. His grin says Dinah is out of luck. If she wanted a pillow, she shouldn’t have tossed it.

“Take a good look at Mayfair and Brooks. And kitchen gossip says Renwick and the Doc used to be real close the first time he came here. Of course, that was before princess Pocahontas-South came across with do-it-yourself godhood.”

“Which….em…straightened everyone out?”

“Well Renny got Pat, Doc got Mona and enough gold to make him a player - at least by fifties standards- and everyone got their own little jungle paradise for the cable remake of ‘the man who would be king’.”

“He hasn't done that badly by the job.” I try to be objective. “The city seems prosperous. The clinic was almost modern.”

“And no one’s holding an election any time soon.” Dick’s voice takes a sarcastic edge. “This place might be pushing 1950 in terms of technology, but socially they are more 1590. If that. Savage is god around here - and that’s no joke.”

Annoying… but not our business. As long as he’s not actually eating babies Savage can have any government he can talk the locals into tolerating. I’m no Ollie Queen. And I’m not up to backing another revolution. Well, not today. Which, judging from Dinah’s suddenly feral expression, means I’d better end whatever she has in mind before it starts.

“Take it up with Oracle when you get home.” I claim one of the pillows from Dick. “But on my time, you don’t take side jobs.”

“Ohh. Nasty.” Dinah starts to stick out her tongue, then just grins. “No wonder I’m two timing you with Jones.”

I smile back. “What do I expect from a bleached-blond torch singer?”

“You are such a bastard.”

“Wayne is a bastard,” I agree.

“I don’t think this crew is going to consider that a good excuse for my moving on to Indy.” Dinah swivels around to sit cross-legged, since she’s not going to get her pillow back from either of us. “And they’re going to believe the playboy of Gotham is suddenly one of the Challengers of the Unknown?

“What playboy of Gotham?” Dick shrugs. “These folks think CNN is a misspelling for misdemeanor.”

“Dick’s right,” I add. “All this crew knows is that I’ve got more money then God, and the balls to kick butt rather then run home when the mean-old-pirates gave me grief. And we leave it there. Understood?”

“So I’m your fluffy little love bunny? Or do I pull my Emma Peel routine?

“That depends.” I give it a moment’s thought. Bimbo would be safest in terms of persona, but I will probably need her in the field. “Watch my back. Take your cues as you get them. It’s possible ...”

I cut off as I hear footsteps outside the door. By the time S’uuj pulls back the heavy curtain, Dick is standing and Dinah and I are seated politely in the only two seats.

“Mr. Wayne?” She inquires politely. “Kin Kawil Savage asks if you would join him in his office.”

“I would be delighted,” I answer, reaching for my jacket. These people are that formal. Besides which, the pockets allow me to keep a few toys - just in case.

I don’t look back. No need. Dick and Dinah fall in unasked.

S’uuj seems taken a bit aback when they follow me from the room. “Your people...”, she begins, clearly torn between local expectations and a fear of ‘overstepping’. Too bad for her. I was trained by Alfred. I’ve been squashing presumptuous employees since I was eight.

“My people *are* me.” With the clear implication that, if Doc has any objections, he can damn well make them clear - himself.

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He doesn’t - quite. A few tight lips and sideways looks from the crew, but no one actually asks Dick and Dinah to leave. I get the impression Mona is not so thrilled with my attitude. Fine. I’m not so thrilled with her problem.

Mona Savage’s nasty look is the first thing I notice when I walk thru the door. Probably because its the only thing out of place. I check out the room. Bigger version of the library. Serious money desk, conference table to one side, decent supply of good leather chairs. 

Littlejohn stands up to offer me his. Polite of him, because, large as it is, the room is booked. I just as politely decline. I’m younger, and I prefer to be able to move.

Mayfair and Brooks are together on the left side, Littlejohn once again claiming desk space behind a pile of books. Savage is standing by the desk. Anyone else would sit on it, but he’s playing this formal. Or he just likes to pace. His wife Mona seated a few feet away keeping a proprietary eye on the chair that *should* be his.

Both of the Renwick's are off to the right chatting with a well-scrubbed looking young man decked out in the upscale version of the local kilt and top. The young man is, I assume, Captain Muwan. Captain of the Guard, Virginia Renwick's finance, and all around ‘marry into the family’ loyal flunky.

Two other men in the scaled down version of the same uniform. Command personnel. I place the anxious one in his twenties as Muwan’s lieutenant or equivalent. The older man? He has no obvious expression, but gives off serious vibes of just wanting this to be over. Call him a sergeant.

So. The whole Hidalgo crew, with the presumed exception of the kids and Thomas J. Roberts. Unless he’s moved in the last week, he should still be back in Crescent City. From the first report, I would have expected him to be in the thick of things. But? I suppose somebody had to stay and mind the shop.

Even so, this is clearly the Committee of the Whole. Plus one last minute addition from Gotham. Dick and Dinah are sitting in - well standing, but they are here. Here and at point formation. That caught a few looks, but Savage hasn’t bothered to be insulted by my caution, and what Savage says goes. So my crew is in - albeit hanging back and faking out the wallpaper. Or, to go by Mona’s slide-over non-look, becoming a part of it. It would burn me - if I cared. As Dick says, a bunch of geriatric gajae. As Dinah would say, once back to Gotham I can always drop then from my invitation list. Not that they were on it.

Savage waves Muwan forward. “Bruce, good news.”

“I assume that means the Captain here has found the dagger, and now we’re here to draw straws as to who goes and gets it?”

“Ah, Bruce,” he laughs. The first truly joyous response I have seen from him. “Just as headstrong as your father. But you also seem to have his courage.”

I give him my shark smile. The one I so seldom get a chance to use. It feels good. “I know how to handle things. As he did.”

“His modesty too.” Brooks tries to make it a rebuke, but his smile lets me know that, while that trait is sorely lacking in us both, no one in this pack of adventurers really considers it a loss. Still, he follows it with a half-frown probably designed to settle over- enthusiastic students. “Why don’t we let the Captain tell us himself?”

“Kin Kawil Savage, noble ladies, gentleman.” The young man begins. His English is excellent despite a local accent. “Pau’ah and his troops have returned from a reconnaissance of Yankuikan, and I regret to report...”

“They have the Jaguar’s Tongue.” Renwick finishes the sentence.

“Yes, sir.” The answer is automatic, followed a second later by a more hesitant “Or so we believe.”

The older man - presumably Pau’ah, steps forward. Less accustomed to English, to judge by his careful cadence, but the result was clear enough to understand. “None of our watchers were able to see the blade itself, but... the city is busy, the altars are decorated, and the priests are clearly preparing for a major sacrifice.”

“Littlejohn?” Savage looks over. “Any other reason?”

“Calendrically? Scarcely.” He rubs his finger over his lip in abstraction. “ Nonetheless, given Tepiltzin I could believe any diverse deliberation. That individual’s ambition is excess to his devotion. But absent a compulsory commemoration...” 

“They got tha knife,” Mayfair finished for him.

I sympathize. Littlejohn or Jones, there is something about archaeology that seems to make men incapable of giving a straight answer.

I listen to the rest of the story with half an ear. Dick will remind me of anything important, and at the moment I am learning more from the faces around me then from an already predictable report.

“Thank you, Captain.” Savage’s voice recaptures my attention.

Muwan give a half bow. “The troops are ready. Within two days we can have them at Yankuikan.”

And that - to judge by expressions - is that.

“So, Bruce,” Savage says as he gives the Captain a nod of dismissal. “I assume you want to join with us?” He phrases it as a question, but his tone is that of a forgone conclusion.

“Go with you? No.” I permit myself a moments amusements while scanning the shocked faces. “Instead.”

“You really think...” Mayfair begins, outraged.

“No.” I cut him off. “I know.” Ignoring him, I speak to Savage. “You have an army. So does Tepiltzin. March them around and you can get a lot of people killed. Other than that? A waste of time and effort.”

“And what da ya think you’d do.” Mayfair again, rallying to the defense of his leader.

I want to answer ‘More then you can imagine’, but I think it wiser to ignore the question instead. At least for now. Better to put the conversation back on the rational path. Besides, the only one who’s opinions matter is Savage.

“What you want is the knife.” 

He nods. I get the impression that he is more amused then impressed by my apparent impudence, but he’s listening. I can work with that. So I make it a question. “Why bother with the city?”

“I suppose you have some other bright idea?” Once again Mayfair, but as Savage isn’t frowning I decide that the red-haired man has been deputized to play Devil’s Advocate. Fine with me. The fewer objections this crew hears from Savage, the easier they will be to bring around.

I’m tempted to respond with ‘Always’. But again that answer might be a bit undiplomatic. “You get me to the City. I take my two. We get in, get the knife, and get back before Tepiltzin can move. You have the knife back in less than a day.”

Renwick is nodding. I think that the commando angle appeals to something in his nature. Mayfair is still suspicious. Brooks likes the idea, but not me.

“You, your man, and Dr. Jones?”, he asks. “I don't think...”

“Jones I brought in to point out the birds.” Not entirely true, but true as far as they need to know. “Strike team is myself, Grayson, and Lance.”

“You would take your girlfriend...” Renwick sounds horrified.

“Girlfriend?” I slant one eyebrow. “Lance is my bodyguard.”

“A girl?” Mayfair’s tone grows even more suspicious, if that is possible. “I've never heard...”

“Were you asking?” Dinah steps forward and strikes her best pose. “I can give you references. But then you'd have to pay my interview fee. And afterwards I’d still turn you down.”

That sets Mayfair back - visibly.

“Clever.” Patricia Renwick nods at her husband. “A secret second guard behind the first.” from her tone she admires either my tactics or my deviousness; I’m not clear which. She takes a closer looks at Dick. “Or is Mr. Grayson not...?

“Mr. Grayson?” I give her an even darker smile then the one I used on her sister-in-law. “Let’s just say that...if I wanted your bloody Tongue? He’d get it for me.”

The room falls still, except for a few low inhalations. Damn, I can see why the villains smirk so often. This is fun.

“You couldn’t...” Mona Savage, barely above a whisper.

Mayfair starts to say something.

Dick cuts him off with a glance. “I took the Spirit of the Eternal Soul away from Ra’s al Ghul. In Gotham. Right under the eyes of the Batman.”

“You have...” Mona Savage looks at Dick with a sudden respect.

Become a threat, I mentally finish her sentence. Because if I would send him to take that, then why not go for the Jaguar’s Tongue. “Not any more,” I answer for him. That relaxes her slightly, so I add, “ That statue is back with the monks. Where it belongs.”

“You would...?” Patricia Renwick makes a vague gesture connecting Dick and myself.

“At his word,” Dick answers, low and lethal. “Now. Always. Whatever.”

Savage smiles at me. “My complements, Bruce. You have not only matched your father, you have exceeded him.”

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After that it’s a matter of details. Where, as Alfred taught me, the Devil dwells. Chief devil here being my restrictions on what I can tell them. Oh, I can refer to my resources. The toys and props, the skills and techniques. Those things would raise eyebrows in the real world, but in this isolated fantasia they pass unquestioned. No one here has heard of airhead Bruce. I doubt they would believe the stories if they had. To them, the decision to train in judo and go adventuring is as undebated as the desire to breath air. Nomex and kevlar weave earns a question of where and how much, but never why.

Do we act like this? Is the JLA, in its way, just as cosmically provincial? I make a mental note to talk to J’onn. He will know. An unanticipated benefit of our friendship. Telepaths make wonderful psychiatrists. I don’t mind being mad, but I can not afford to lose touch with reality.

And reality here is definitely in question. Although they have a remarkably clear grasp of facts on the ground. And Savage is almost as brilliant of a tactician as he believes he is.

So, after several hours of maps and lists, we are agreed. Not quite as easily as I would like. My team of four-at-most has expanded to include most of the room. Plus several of Captain Muwan’s best men. Plus half the Army marching behind us to cover our back. No matter. The basic plan is sound.

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


	22. Pastime with Good Company

Dinnertime. 

I convince Patricia Renwick to send a tray up to the room. Supposedly because I need to rest up for tomorrow.

She’s easily persuaded. After all, it’s easier then finding a tux for Dick. And - let Dick say what he will - I am *not* letting him eat in the kitchen. No matter what we do at home.

Dinah and Jones join us - which probably improves the conviviality at both tables. And relieves Dear Miz Mona of deciding whether to accept two ‘servants’ at her table - or none. After all, if Dinah is as much my bodyguard as Dick? Apparently these people are not up in the latest fashions in snobbery. Bodyguards are like pearls - best worn next to skin. On the few occasions I had to tolerate Sasha, she sat closer then my date.

Simplicity actually improves the menu. Southern fried iguana, whipped sweet potatoes, jalapeno fritters, and a wonderful papaya and mango fruit salad with agave dressing. I give another thought to what it would take to move the cook over to Gotham. Alfred would never share the manor kitchen, but perhaps in the City apartment? Immigration shouldn't be a problem. I could honestly testify that *no one* in Gotham knows how to cook like this.

Dick is setting out the food while Dinah rounds up enough chairs. The table is hardly large enough to *seat* us all, but it will hold the dishes. After that? I suppose lizard is like chicken. Acceptable to eat with the fingers.

Dick grabs a ...drumstick, I suppose... and takes a huge bite. Its been a while since he had solid food, and fighting burns a lot of calories.

“Good?” Dinah asks.

“Tastes like snake,” he answers, picking out another leg.

Dark meat, anyway. Probably very healthy, and low in fat. If I can’t get the cook, perhaps I can at least get the recipe.

“Jones?” I ask, helping myself to a crispy breast. “You’re my Aztec expert. Do you think this Muwan is right?”

Jones looks up from his plateful of fritters. “No reason to think he’s not.”

“That isn’t what I asked.” The batter is packed with chilies and salt. Spicy enough to have me reaching for the mango punch. I squeeze a bit of lime over the meat to cut the burn.

“From what he reported, I’d agree they *are* decorating the city for a sacrifice.”

“The Jaguar sacrifice?” Dick prompts. “The one this Savage guy keeps talking about?”

“Perhaps. Littlejohn seems to think so, and he’s not totally incompetent... on the occasions when he can see over his ego. My calculations would put them a few days early, but, with a solar calendar? Did you know that at the time of the Gregorian reform in Europe, some of the major city were as much as two years out of alignment with the ‘real’ date?”

Dinah snatches a mango slice off of Jones’ plate. “So Saturday here could be Friday there?”

“Or next week, or last month. The biggest problem in archaeology and anthropology is the desire to create a general rule and have it cover too much in terms of times and peoples. Given that even our best data is five hundred years out of date. With due respect for Littlejohn’s civic recordkeeping.”

I spear a fritter. The burn helps cut though my frustration. “Other then having this Tongue of the Jaguar, is there any other reason you could think of for holding a sacrifice?”

“Quite a lot of them. There is just so much that we don’t know about the individual cities.”

“Specifically what other reasons?”

“Births of heirs, marriages, important prisoners, abandoned hostages. Hell,” He waves his fork on a gesture of inclusion, “maybe they just decided to clear out a few extra convicts. Aztec’s aren't as snobbish as the Maya when it comes to who they deify.” The last word is mumbled over a slice of mango. “Then there’s the equinox itself. Even if there was no need for political reinforcement, I would logically expect...”

I cut off the lecture. “Any reason which would suggest we leave the dagger with the Aztecs... if they have it?”

“Other then the obvious reason?” Jones puts down his fork. “That we would all be a lot safer heading back to Santa Amoza and leaving the locals to sort out their own slaughters?

I nod. “Other than that.”

He picks up his fork again. “Not that I can think of. But give me time.” 

That still leaves me with a lot of questions, but none that I want to cover in public.

Dinah moves the conversation on to lighter subjects - or at least subjects I don't have to listen to. Probably she’s no more interested in Sumerian sculpture then I am, but she is interested in Jones, and while the bloom is fresh on the romance that apparently includes an interest in whatever nearly lethal ‘adventure’ he’s planning next. Which is fine. The most that sponsoring that will cost me is a few months of her time while she and Jones go and dig up the back end of Iran. Oh, and maybe a hundred thou or so. That I can pull out of the Wayne Foundation, and probably would have anyway. It’s the time I’ll miss.

Jean-Paul is acceptable in terms of cover - but he lacks something when it comes to conversations. Sasha... makes me nervous. Even trained, she’s not...trained. I make a note to check with Oracle as to whether Powerwoman has any free time in the next few months. She’s not as friendly with Dick, but she’s pretty, blonde, and as far as I know invulnerable. That last counts for quite a lot. She wont help as much as Dinah, should it actually come to a fight, but at least I wont have to be babysitting her.

Once we’ve finished off the last of the fruit, it’s nearly full dark. Dinah is yawning and making ‘go to bed’ signals clear enough to reach Jones’ libido though even a few millennia of funerary inscriptions. I assume that, being professional, she will also see that they get some sleep.

On the way out the door, Dinah pauses.

“Bruce? Are you sure you want to go in on either side? I mean,” she looks at Jones, weighing her words.. “Alone?”

I know what she means. And I have considered it. Both calling in support and just walking away. Either could be justified, but... “There’s been blood enough. If we *can* quiet things down... it would be a good idea.”

“So you’re for Savage?”

“I’m for getting Savage the knife.” I clarify. “After that?”

She smiles - a bit too broadly. She’s been talking to Dick. Oh well, I suppose I can afford another revolution after all.

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By the time I finish my shower the other room is quiet. I assume they are sleeping. I should do as much, but it’s been three days now since I have had any private time with Dick.

“How are you feeling?’ I ask as he slips into my arms.

“You decide.”

I run my hands down his back. Part of my mind is still checking for burn marks on his skin, but the rest is getting distracted because that skin is warm, and supple, and Dick. Exceedingly Dick.

With my reputation for exactitude, I should have some more specific term but... there it is. Dick is Dick. And *only* Dick is Dick. Precise enough, in it’s way.

He wraps his legs around mine and rolls me over, landing lip to lip. Quite a stunt in this narrow bed. But then, Dick was always... athletic. And enthusiastic. And - from the feel of things - fully recovered. *Very* fully recovered.

He has me pinned *long* before I can force out the obligatory ‘you should rest’. Not that I’m struggling that hard. And if he can do... ohh.. that... he can’t be too exhausted.

Another flip and I’m on top of him with my shoulders resting on his knees. Never let it be said I can’t take a hint. I plant a quick kiss on one calf as he locks his knees behind my neck. Impatient brat. 

He’s ready. Very ready. No wonder he left me to shower alone.

Before I can breath, he has me encircled. Captured. Claimed.

This is what I came here for. No. This is the reason I am here. Here in this City, here in Hidalgo, here on the earth. To be alive. To be with life. To be with Dick.

And if I have to swim with piranhas or wrestle a few crocodiles to get this? Dick is worth it.

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I *should* be relaxed. I am. Practically boneless. Unfortunately, my mind doesn't seem to want to go along with my body.

“Bruce?” Dick pulls back the pillow I have been strangling.

“I still don't like this.”

Dick knows what I mean, so he rolls on to one elbow and asks. “Why? Think Savage is playing you?”

“No,” I answer automatically. Too quickly, perhaps. Is he? NO. I understand Savage. But *something* is wrong. I feel it, and over the years I have learned to trust that part of my feelings. I sit up against the headboard. “It seems such a long shot.” Not precise, but neither are my thoughts - yet. Dick may help. “Even if this Teplitzin does have the dagger now, it does not explain why we were harassed on the river.”

“Bad luck?” Dick suggests. “Pirates thought we had it, he got it first?”

“Possible.” Which it is. I’ve seen too much NOT to believe in coincidence... but.... “Jones told me that map you found was Inca. Why would they have an Inca map if they were looking for a Mayan city?”

“Are there any Incan cities?”

“Not that Savage mentioned.”

Dick shrugs. I feel it against my shoulder. “Wont be the first time someone sold a phony ‘treasure’ map. Won’t be the last. At least Drax didn’t end up in Miami.”

I snort. Dick and his humor. “Wrong city. Miami was the city of eternal youth.” 

“Not recently.” He head-butts my shoulder. “Have you seen the old farts down there?”

“When were you ever in Miami?”

“Argent threw a party for Tempest’s kid. Borrowed a private island from some friend of Jessie’s mom. Most of the ‘Justice’ crew was there.”

“How come I’m never invited to those?” 

“Because you have the Titans convinced the Bat would melt in direct sunlight?” Dick slides down, pulling up the blanket. “Next time I’ll invite you. Better yet, I’ll invite ‘Bruce’. That should make Libby really excited.”

“Please.” I groan. “I’m much to old for her.”

“Hell, I’m too old for her.” The blanket shifts again, sliding away in Dick's direction. “But as long as you’re not too old for me?” He punctuates that with a soft kiss just under my arm.

“Not as long as you do that, I wont be.” I pull back my half of the blanket, and Dick with it. Not that the night is that cold, but? I tuck my end firmly under my back. With Dick restless, a loose blanket is soon a missing blanket. “Back to the topic... Assuming that this local ‘guide’ was selling Drax a bill of goods, why lead him deep into the jungle?”

“Easier to shake him off?” Dick gives the blanket one last pull, then surrenders. “Hell, maybe he thought that if he got them lost enough Drax would just give up and go home.”

“Unlikely.”

“So he was leading them into a trap.” Dick slides one arm up, snagging his second pillow. My pillow. “Kidnapping is a big business down south. Maybe whoever was running the scam was thinking of moving the business north.

“Possible.” And it is, but... “Where does burning the villages fit in?,” I ask, snatching the pillow back. “And what is up with this Walker fellow?”

“Walker went overland, right?”

“Supposedly on horseback. Stupid idea in a jungle, but...”

“Could he have burned the villages?” 

“Not unless he picked up some friends,” I answer. “Walker was alone when he left San Dismas, and our witness said there were several raiders.” 

At least I think Walker was alone. He was alone at San Dismas, but he could have hired men at Pueblo Molino or one of the smaller villages. Perhaps I should call Martin Juarez back at the lumber plantation. Possibly even Arturo Gomez. Gomez must be back by now. Whatever the crisis that drew him away during our visit must be resolved by now, and he is too much of a local ‘jefe’ to leave Juarez in charge one minute longer then absolutely necessary. Almost like a medieval baron. *Nobody* crosses Gomez’s turf or hires his men without his approval. I don’t know the man well, but that much I do know. 

“He could just be the inevitable innocent bystander?” Dick gives a quick roll. Fortunately I have one hand on the blanket, and the other on my pillow, so neither is lost.

“Possible, but...” I let the sentence die. “Dick? There is still a big piece missing from this puzzle. A very big piece. One that can stretch all the way from Santa Amoza to Pueblo Molino to here. I know it’s out there. I just don’t know its name.”

Dick gives a final turn, slipping his arm under my waist. “Let it go, Bruce. We can sic Oracle on them all in the morning... but for tonight?”

I stuff the pillow under my neck before Dick can confiscate it permanently. Dick’s always been larcenous when it comes to pillows. Makes him rough to sleep with. Correction. Make that *wonderful* to sleep with - as long as I don’t plan on getting any sleep. Which tonight we really should.

We have an early morning, so we *should* be getting some sleep. And we will. 

Soon.

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


	23. The Night Has Eyes

Sixteen hours to get through the jungle. We left at first light, and it is full dark now. Slower then I expected or would have liked. No mater. We’re here. Tucked under brush in the last deep cover before the city.

Mayfair and Brooks have vanished somewhere to the left. They will watch the gate on the other side of the city. We won’t hear from them until this operation is finished - one way or the other.

Littlejohn is to the right, watching Jones, who is watching Dinah, who is - in a purely professional way - watching Dick.

Renwick is with me, watching nothing. But it is very important nothing.

There is what passes for a road five feet in front of us, and about fifty yards past that the gates of the city. Fairly solid wooden gates set in thick stone. Not as large as I expected - there's a limit to what you can build without an arch - but big enough for yesterday’s traffic. Which, to judge by the footprints left in the dirt track that passes for a road, would amount to several thousand people. Lousy turnout of a Knights home game. Apparently quite a showing for murder one. Because that is what they are here for. To see some poor punk chopped up, skinned, and - if you believe Littlejohn - barbecued with pepper sauce. Jones snort implied that was going a bit far. Whatever. The murder part does it for me. I’m not here to swap recipes.

I scan the dark batch of shadow Renwick assures me is a city. At least in this neck of the woods. Literally. Gotham has larger shopping malls. Still, it comes in just slightly smaller then the place we left, so I’ll assume it’s impressive by local standards.

I had expected more movement. More noise. More lights. More... everything. Even the shack back at Porto Chakpac had some signs of life. This place is dead.

There are suburbs out their somewhere. Little patches of farmland tucked between the less tractable trees. Tiny work sheds and shops. The inevitable peasants who supply any city. They don’t matter today. Anyone who can has already found a place inside from which to watch tomorrow’s festivities. Those who aren't welcome? The smart ones are going to lay low until it’s over - just in case Tepiltzin goes looking for a new guest of honor.

I scan again with the binoculars set to heat. A few coal-red lumps around the gates which I assume are sentries. Seated against the wall. Wrapped in their ponchos. Possibly even awake. I will assume they are, even though their posture could as easily indicate otherwise.

Everything matches with Oracle’s satellite maps. Which in turn match the Luna Tower scans. One of the reasons I’m glad J’onn is on duty. What he won’t do without question - he makes sure the questions are ones I won’t mind answering. Not that I really need him for this. Kitten could run this as a snatch-and-grab. But... Dinah is Oracle’s operative, not truly mine. Not JLA, or even Titans. If we must work on vacation, I might as well get some training time out of it.

I pass the glasses to Renwick. Their compact frame is dwarfed in his huge hands. Almost comically so. But, for all his outward appearance, his touch is a deft as any civilian I’ve known.

He makes a show of checking out the city. Maybe curious. Mostly just to reassure the troops. There’s nothing to see, and he know it. Expects it, even.

According to Littlejohn, most everyone will be resting up for the party tomorrow. The annual church picnic, human sacrifice, and barbecue. A good time to be had by almost all. And, if I believe Jones, the really important folks will be stone drunk as well. Or just plain stoned. I don't know what you call an Agave enema. Make that - I know what I’d call it. Sick. But everyone knows I’m not the ‘party’ type.

Renwick hands back the binoculars. “You’re sure of this?” he asks.

“I’m sure of nothing.” An honest answer, if a bit more cosmic then he may understand. Even death and taxes have their exceptions, and I’m in the presence of both of them.

“But you do think…”

“No.” I cut him off. “I don’t think. I know.”

I look over at Dick. Barely visible in his unmarked blacks, he is running a last procedures check with Dinah. Not that we aren’t clear, but Dick has been a team leader to long to trust even himself. Zero error, 100% support. That is his rule. One of the reasons the Titans are so eager to keep him. Titans hell, the JLA has made a few offers. None I couldn’t squash - so far – but the day will come. I know it. I even know when and why. That is my private amusement. Everyone whispers that Nightwing will be my replacement. I know better. He’ll be Kal’s.

“And you trust them.” Renwick draws me back into the present.

“With my life.”

“Yes, but...” Renwick's lips tighten. “The Tongue of the Jaguar, it is, after all...”

“From his perspective? Somewhat less important.”

Which is true. I don’t know what I did to gain that. I do know I did nothing to deserve it. But - for all of that - I do have Dick’s loyalty. And his love. Even in the dark time, and far more so now. Which is doubtless another reason the local obtuseness sets up my nerves. Do they really think I could *buy* someone like Dick?

I remember last night, after I had finally made my escape from their never-ending ‘conference’. Dick's mock-serious expression as he did the whole ‘body-guard’ routine, up to and including ‘checking out’ the bed. As he pointed out, he might find something hidden in the mattress.

And *then* he made me sit in my own chair to eat dinner. The teasing brat!

He found something in the mattress, all right, but it wasn’t exactly hidden. In fact, after all his teasing it was rampantly evident - at least for a while. After the second time he made love to me I was glad I had let K’usal bring in the cot. My own bed’s sheets were a mess, and we both ended up sleeping on the cot. Which means Dick got both the blankets, and I got covered with Dick. At least until he got enough sleep to become restless - and rolled off both me and the bed.

Of course, I had to kiss the ‘landing spot’ and make it better. But that ruined the other set of sheets. Not a rare occurrence, and probably the reason Dick insists on keeping his own suite at the manor. The kid always was rough on bedding.

I check the crew again. Dinah is talking to Jones. Possibly a fond farewell. Possibly. But from her expression, I’d say she’s giving final orders. And from his, I’d say he’s taking them.

Not that he looked any happier when we left this morning. He’s supercargo, and he knows it. But... they insisted on Littlejohn, so I hauled Jones. Not that I really need him. Littlejohn *is* the local expert - and I have Oracle to check him against. Not that I’d doubt Littlejohn’s good intentions. Much. No, I insisted on Jones, because...well? To be honest to myself, mostly to be a shit. A player’s move to keep my team ‘even’ with the Savage crew. But also because? For Jones? This trip may be miserable, but it is *not* going to kill him.

So that’s my team. Dick, Dinah, and Jones. Plus two upstairs that no one on the Hidalgo side knows about. Eight on the ground. Three in play. Smaller then some operations, bigger then many. Less then Savage wanted. Likely more then this retrieval truly requires.

I pull up my hood. We’re wearing unmarked blacks. Hoods rather then masks or a cowl. No matter. No one here would know my face from a post office photo. If they even had a post office. Or a photo. And unless things go wrong? I don’t plan to be seen at all.

I tap my ear piece. The comlink sounds like NASA ground control. Oracle for location. Jones for analysis, and me to warn Renwick if things really go wrong. Dinah will check the altar. There’s already a big display of junk, enough to easily conceal one dagger. Littlejohn thinks it’s there. Dick will search the temple above it, where Jones thinks they would have stashed the knife. Me? I’m going with Gotham criminal profiles. Most thieves like to sleep with their loot. I will take the main palace and Tepi-boys bedroom. If he’s as zoned as Littlejohn says, and he won’t notice one more visitor.

Dick steps up to the verge. He waves to Renwick, then to me. Savage’s crew is pulling back, and we are going in.

Up first. Into the green cover that shields the sky even this close to the city, Not as thick as in the true jungle. Here there is clearance, and light enough for bushes and underbrush, rather then the near-barren ground of wilder parts. Still, the tall trees endure. Perhaps preserved as part of some plan to conceal the city. More likely simply because the natives lack the tools to cut them down efficiently. No matter. Tonight they are our road in.

Dick first. Up to the tip, then across the night sky in a long gliding arc. Black against black, visible only by the passing absence of stars. Flipping and turning to land more gently then any human should on the flat stone top of the highest pyramid.

Dinah next, floating like Arachnie on invisible lines. Wall to roof to roof to temple, then down finally to the sloping tiles of the main alter. Vanishing black on black among the twisting shadows of the hanging banners. Slower then Dick, perhaps less elegant, but just as silent.

I watch until they are safely in, then follow. Up the tree, then a powered launch. Lines extended, caught, then swiftly retracting to add the final power. Angle and velocity meeting to maximize range. Tuck and roll to soften the landing. Not as silent as Dick's, but soft enough to pass in this buzzing night. I’m surprised at that. I had expected the jungle to be silent compared to Gotham. Empty. It’s not. It’s just noisy in a different way.

I check the wooden roof below my feet. My first step is cautious, experimental. Without arch or buttress I'm not certain how stable a plank roof will be. The answer is - in this case - excellent. Good. Down to the window, then through. An easy passage. The curtains are open and apparently screens have yet to be invented.

No interior lighting. Not a surprise, since the whole city was dark. Still, there is enough starlight to operate my night-vision lenses.

Not much furniture. A low table, some mats, a chest, a stool. A few baskets in one corner. A pot to one side. Either water or waste. A low bed at the far side with two figures. Tepiltzin and Mrs. Tepiltzin, or so I assume, both heavily asleep. From the sound of the snores, either Littlejohn was right about the drugs or Mrs. T could use a nose-bob for more than fashion. And if Mr. T is sleeping through the noise? I scan the sleeping mans eyelids. No movement. Drugged or exhausted, and in either case down for the count.

Quick visual scan. Nothing interesting, unless you count the ugly art that passes for wallpaper. Rows of figures stabbing thorns through lips, tongues, and winceingly more intimate parts. Perhaps I should be more charitable to Tepi-boy. If I had to sleep with that, I’d drink too.

A second scan with a blacklight, which should flare if any lichen were damaged lately by moving stones. Moving stones like those in front of a hidden wall safe. Nothing. Damn. I check the walls again by touch. Nothing loose. Nothing unsteady. These people are lousy interior decorators, but great stone workers.

So. My target must be elsewhere in the room. The pot is empty - for which I am truly grateful. The baskets I check more carefully. The small one holds peppers and cracked corn. No doubt a midnight snack. The two larger baskets hold folded cloth. Much more possible. I unfold and shake out each piece. Slowly. The jade and metal trim could make noise if handled carelessly. No luck. A few bits of jewelry are tucked in among the clothes, but nothing large enough to be even part of the Tongue. I put them back, careful to maintain the original creases. After I’m gone with the blade, I don’t want even a suspicion to remain. Let our Aztec friends blame their luck, or their guards, or their Gods. Just not their neighbors.

The chest is probably too small, but I check it anyway. They could have separated the blade and handle. Unlikely, I grant, but still possible. And, after all else is eliminated, then, however improbable? No. Mrs. T’s vanity case, from the looks of it. More jewelry, cosmetics, a fatty emulsion that is either perfume or hand cream, and a few nasty little obsidian blades that I *hope* she only uses to trim her nails. Although given the local art? I tuck them back and give a appreciative thought for my heavy gloves.

Nothing under the mats. Nothing under the stool. Bad news. That leaves only one possibility. A risky one.

I pull back to the window ledge. Not that they wouldn’t have called, but... I tap the sub-vocal throat mike. “Any luck?”

Dinah answers first. “Not yet. Leather and pottery, a few statues. No blades. They must store them inside.”

Dick taps in. “Agreed. I’ve found quite the armory, but nothing like the picture we were shown of the Tongue. Everything so far is shorter, with a wider blade. more like an Eskimo skinning knife. And the handle art is different.”

“Understood. I have one more place to check.” With that I tap off. Damn.

I recheck the sleeping pair. No sign of eye movement. Low incident of muscle contraction. Breathing sonorous. Likely they are both as drugged as Littlejohn anticipated, but still... No matter. No choice.

I slide under the bed. It’s low, but there is just enough space. Just. No reflected light gets this far, so I have to risk a blacklight. Interesting. Not as a much side glow as usual. Reasonable. These people don't have modern dyes.

The mattress is leather strap rather then rope. Other than that, this is the IDEA version of my bed back on the boat. Probably rather comfortable for sleeping, but a guaranteed noisemaker if *any* of us move suddenly.

I pull off my outer glove and run my fingertips over the straps. No bumps. No unexpected tension. So the blade isn’t woven into the lattice.

I slide out and up, eye level with the frame. Thankfully the weather is warm enough they aren't using a lot of blankets. And Aztec pajama’s haven't been invented. His side first. A careful survey of the body under the blanket, Nothing wrapped. Nothing tied. Well, nothing big enough to be the Tongue of the Jaguar - although I’m sure Mrs. T tells him otherwise. Damn. Any Gotham punk would be clutching his loot like a teddy bear.

One last hope. I check out the Lady. Not bad. A little plump for my taste, and most likely a little young for legal, but pretty enough. Give her a good haircut and the right dress and I could name at least three men at the Gotham Founders Club who would marry her tomorrow. Not that she might not be better off with Tepi-boy here. Probably. Possibly. Shreck would rip her heart out, but only figuratively.

Nothing on this side. Nothing in her hair. Not that there isn’t enough of it, but for sleeping its down in a plain braid rather then one of the elaborate buns like the wall pictures. One last hope. I ease back the blanket. Risky. This is where they will wake, if ever. And if they do? Then I might reconsider wanting Savages army. She rolls and twitches. I freeze. She settles back, snuggling against Tepi-boy for warmth. He doesn't even grunt. Drugged. Definitely drugged. I shine the blacklight between them. Glows from nail dyes and a few tattoos. Reflections from a jade and gold bracelet. No knife. Damn. I tuck back the blanket and retreat again to the window.

“Bruce here. No luck.”

“Cay... Dinah here. Nothing good.”

“Dick here. Just running a last sweep, but... not here. I need a second target.”

“Oracle. Any suggestions? Hot spots?”

“Oracle here. Nothing. The place is dead.”

“Understood.” And I do understand, her satellites are empty and her chosen expert is sitting in the jungle with me. Not the formula for a happy Oracle. “Go quiet, but keep watching.”

Thinking of said expert. “Jones? Any suggestions?”

“Sorry guys. You already have my best guess. If it’s not in the temple sanctuary, then someone's not following the book.”

“Any ideas from Littlejohn?”

“He says the altar platform, front and center.”

“And Dinah says it’s not.” I consider a second. My call. “Pull out. We’ll conference back with Jones.”

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


	24. Old Time Religion

We pull back. A few tense moments waiting for Dick. It gets a whole lot tenser when we get back to the foliage.

“You were sure they had it?” Half accusation, half question.

Renwick grunts. “It’s for sure they have something. I’ll call Captain Muwan and tell him to prepare the army.”

I look at him, incredulous. “You’re going to storm a walled city looking for something we know we can’t find? What if it isn’t there?”

“Littlejohn?” Renwick asks.

“I say they have the dagger.” 

No surprise there. He thought that yesterday. But he also thought it would be on the altar. I’m beginning to lose what little faith I have in experts.

I give Littlejohn the *look*. “And if they don’t?” 

It doesn't faze him. He’s on his own private turf - both physically and intellectually - and no one is getting in to make any changes.

Renwick answers me. “They’re still up to whatever. I don’t trust Aztecs.”

“They must have the dagger, “ Littlejohn insists. “Only a great relic or great prisoners could justify this level of sacrifice.”

“We can’t risk it.” Renwick turns to me. “Even if we don’t find the knife, taking Kukulkan will delay any challenge from the smaller cities.”

“And if it’s someone else?”

He dismisses the possibility. “I don't think anyone else *could* use the Dagger - but if they try? Holding Kukulkan will strengthen our position.”

Or destroy it, I add mentally. The last thing anyone need going into a crisis of confidence is a rebellious population - and having your city overrun for no good reason is about as good a reason for rebellion as I can think of. Not to mention that - with their army here, and reduced from the battle - the City of Gold itself would be unusually vulnerable.

I consider a lecture on tactics, but doubt these people would take one. Probably not from the Bat. Definitely not from Wayne.

Whether Teplitzin has the knife or not, this whole jungle is going to be flames by breakfast tomorrow. At the latest. If Renwick has his way, it won’t wait for dinner.

I could call in the heavies. I will if it’s the only way to stop a slaughter. Let Eel or Orin say what they will about my ego; I do value human life. Even stupid, egotistical, badly mannered human life. I could, but I’d rather not. Flying magic beings from the heaven fit too well into the local world-view as it is, and we don’t need another ‘Cult of Superman’ to mess up people’s minds. What they think now is messy enough.

I pull Renwick aside. “Let me talk to my crew.” 

He nods. Good manners alone will get me that much. But - judging from his expression - not much more. I best pull a *major* rabbit out of my cowl this time.

“Dick.” I pull his aside where we can talk. “We need another way. Did you see anything up there?”

“Nothing. This place isn’t like the Haven. It’s *dark*.”

I scan the city, superimposing Oracle’s probable city map in my mind. No help. “We can’t search a thousand people by sunrise.”

“Grab Teplitzin and ask him?”

“Possible.” Easy enough physically. The room had good outside access and only one inside door. But - on second thought... “I’d question the effectiveness of torture on anyone who sticks spikes through his own penis just for fashion.”

“Holy...! They don’t...?”

“According to Jones and the wallpaper, they do. Makes the Gods happy.”

“Shee. Bad enough being born Catholic.”

I ignore that. The last time Dick was in a church, he was wearing a tux and carrying a ring. “And… more to the point...he’d know we were here.”

That gets me a half-grin. “It’s hard to interrogate someone without letting them know you’re interested.”

“Right.” 

Dick ignores that, chasing his own chain of logic. “And if Teplitzin doesn't have the dagger, we sure don't want to confirm that *Savage* doesn’t.”

“So?” I prompt.

“If they do have it, do we have any place we know dead certain that the dagger will be? Any time?”

I smile. Dick was always good at tactics. “Only one.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

“Understood. Bruce out.” Canary has word from Oracle. Heat sensitive pinpoint satellite scanning is showing an increased heat signature in our sector. Which means someone is moving. Not that the sensors are delicate enough to pick up the increased body temperature of human movement. Not quite. But they can pick up the thermal signature of an indoor fire. Even the little braziers these people use. And the spot temperature is up sharply in the last few minutes. Oracle figures it means breakfast. I didn't have a chance to confirm with Jones, but she’s probably right.

Renwick has been convinced to let me run things - but just barely. This may be our last chance to retrieve the Tongue of the Jaguar and keep this place out of a war with the City of God.

Fifteen minutes until dawn. The sky is slate blue at the horizon, but the leaf cover is still dark. Even so, we have sent Savage’s people back for safety.

This is a strike team now. Fast and hard. 

Everyone in blacks. Full mask. They will know what happened - no way around that - but they may not be certain WHO.

This time Jones is on point. A detail that annoys Littlejohn, but even a fit seventy year old is less then ideal for clinging to the high point of a tree. Jones isn’t thrilled with the assignment either, but it’s the best vantage point, and we need the info. Timing will be tight enough as it is.

Acolytes on the altar platform. Burning jimson, I assume. Sweet blue smoke. I catch a whiff and it’s almost familiar.

Barely dressed servants stumbling around setting up cloth awnings on long poles. Not clumsy. They move with the certainty of having done this regularly. Just cold and sleepy and probably half hung-over. I give the canopy on the top of the pyramid a careful inspection. Not steady enough for a launch surface, but the cloth will make good cover. If and when.

Movement from the palace. Looks like Teplitzin and his people. No sign of the dagger, but... one of the nobles does have a large basket. Could be in there.

“Bruce?” Dinah’s voice comes from the earphone. “I have movement inside a building here to the east. Several doors are opening.”

“Keep watching. Dick?”

“Check. Movement from the main residence to the east wall. Processional with banners, forming up before Dinah’s building.”

“Jones?”

“Check the middle.” Jones advises. “You should find the victims. For this big an event, there should be more than one. They are the ones without the fancy hats. Either bound or drugged, maybe both, but still walking.”

“I see them.” Dick answers. “Two men and a woman. Focusing in... Hey!”

“What!” I ask.

“I recognize her.” Dick pauses, and I assume he’s adjusting his goggles for a closer look. “That is the pilot chick from the pirates camp.”

“That would explain why Savage’s people couldn't find them,” I reply. “When they hit the jungle they were captured by Aztecs.”

Jones shines in. “That would also explain why the Aztec forces didn't stay around long enough to catch a fight with us. They had what they had come for.”

“Possibly.” Although that would still leave much unexplained, including the motive for their precipitous flight in the first place. “At the time, they may have just been grabbing someone to interrogate - much they same as we would have.”

Dick laughs. “Well, what ever that plan, looks like now Tepi-boy has them in mind for his guest of honor.”

‘Makes sense’ a cynical voice at the back of my mind insists on adding. Safer then offing someone who might have friends, or at least relatives. Prisoners are even safer then criminals.

“Rescue?” Dinah asks.

Safe to assume they are not volunteers. Damn. I have no choice. “Confirmed change in plan. Rescue of prisoners moves to first priority. I’ll take the middle - you each grab your side. Keep watching for the knife. That’s still target two.”

“Two!” Renwick snarls. The thin crackle of the com-link does not cover his outrage.

“Repeat... knife is target TWO! We rescue the victims *first*.”

I may hate the bastards after what they did to Richard, but... they are still human. Somewhat. I can’t leave then here to be lunch.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

I am out on a limb. Literally. Waiting for Dinah to get into position. No time to cover the far side, but three point should do. As soon as she signals...

What!

Gunshots?

At least three, from the far wall. Where no one is.

“Dick!”

“Dinah!”

They will have heard what I heard.

“Dick here. Nothing visible except... damn!” A moment’s pause, then, “One of the awnings just went down. Parade is in chaos.”

Dinah chimes in. “Combat at the far gate. I can’t make it out, but something is stampeding the crowd.”

“The back gate is gone.” Jones confirms. “I caught a large white shape. The streets are too narrow to give me a good look, but to judge by the damage I’d say whatever it is it’s moving towards the parade.”

“Victims?

“I can see one.” Dinah says. “The women.”

Now or never. I shoot my line, calling... “GO! GO!”

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


	25. Rumble in the Jungle

Total chaos. A street scene cast by Lubick and choreographed by DeMille. Thankfully, this crowd is still living in a two-dimensional world, so air passage is reasonably clear. If the local architecture lacks the over-arching spires of Gotham? Well, the tight scale more then makes up for it. Three swings and I’m directly over Prince Not-So-Charming.

I’ll give the man points for courage, if none for brains. He’s holding his ground. Right in the middle of the street. Walls on two sides and the fallen debris of what was a wood frame and canopy awning blocking the narrow road in back of him. Perfect killing ground. Lucky for him, I don't kill.

Any way, he’s not my first target. Or even my third.

The oldest, thinnest pirate - the one we assume is Xander Drax - is still visible. One of the royal guards has him by the neck. Big man. Very big. It will take some shaking to make the guard let go. 

Mental note: make sure to hold back at least one batarang.

Our two other soon-to-be deities were behind him - and I don’t see them now - so by logic they should be under the cloth. Certainly someone - several someones - are under there, judging by the movement.

I flip back the far side and kick the first body I see. No need to bother with identities – it’s all target. Even our ‘rescuees’ will be easier to handle unconscious.

I reach the girl first. She’s rolling around with two of the soldiers, who are still trying to subdue her without actually doing too much damage. Chivalry lives. Of course, given that they were planning to rip her heart out and eat the remains, it apparently doesn't live long.

I clip them both. Miss Pirate makes a break for the side street. 

I catch a black blur from the edge of my vision. Fine. The woman is Dinah’s target. I have my own work.

By the fourth soldier, the royal guard has noticed I’m here. Of course, Dick has also located me, so at eight to two I’d put the odds at just off even - in our favor.

Dick crashes through the remaining poles, bringing the last standing canopy down on Teplitzin and company. The prince is not hurt, but the screams distract his guard. Most of them turn back to rescue their boss. The rest are easy targets. I don't waste any batarangs. It’s simpler just to let Dick kick them in the head.

I focus my efforts at digging through the fallen mess of canopy and screaming Aztecs. Nasty. They are not organized enough to qualify as resistance, but a mad mob is always unpredictable, and thus dangerous. I want to grab our targets and get gone.

The heavy pirate is in there. The one who burned Dick. The man is striking out at random, too confused to notice me in the crowd of bodies. He goes down with a very satisfying thud. Savage will probably set the shoulder when we get him back to the City of Gold. For now? I secure him with a few twists of jump-line and pass him to Dick.

Now for the main party. Xander Drax has to be somewhere under that canopy with the Prince.

I don't bother to separate the lumps. Whatever’s on top gets hit. The falling cloth seems to have dislodged most of the fancy headgear, so the royal retinue turns into the royal roadblock with satisfying swiftness.

Once everyone is out, I go digging.

And find - nothing.

Drax has vanished. He should logically be somewhere under that cloth - except when I raise the cloth he’s not there. Teplitzin, yes. His guard... yes. All accounted for. Drax? No.

Instead?

I end up face to face - or rather face to teeth - with the largest canine I’ve seen this side of the Gotham zoo. Canus lupis, and serious about it.

I could take the beast, but under the circumstances? The other way out is just as fast.

Dick has the other man.

I signal Dinah to give me the girl and go.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

I hand the prisoners over to Renwick and focus on my own people.

“Jones?” I help him down from the tree branch where he has been watching the fiasco. “Did you get a clear view?”

He had the best chance to actually see something worthwhile, although the original disturbance was out of his line of sight. We picked the highest tree, but it still wasn’t much above the city walls. That's the problem with nature. It’s never much higher then itself.

“Nope.” Jones gestures with his binoculars. “Only a blur. Purple and black shape. Vaguely human, and riding a white horse. Carrying someone else. Not that a horse could get over these walls without maybe flying but…”

Dick looks up from resetting his jumpline. “The flying white horse sounds like...”

“No way!” Dinah has the look of a woman who is absolutely not going to have a discussion. 

“Just because we’re ass deep in Aztecs doesn’t mean we can’t have …”

My glance at Jones cuts off the name. Not that the archaeologist hasn’t heard it, at least in passing, but if he hasn’t made the connection?

No need to get the doctor worried about absent foes when we have so many adjacent ones eager to volunteer.

“I don’t think we want to start believing in fantasy characters and magic quests. Not when there are so many real horses on the planet. And unless someone saw wings I’m going to go with egress via broken gate. Even if Dr. Jones somehow missed the beast.” I keep my voice unaccusatory. “No offense, Doctor.”

“None taken.”

Dinah looks at Jones, then me, then Jones again. I know she’d like to defend ‘her man’, but she’s too much of a professional to delude herself. Plus, from the perspective of her duties, it hardly matters who the mystery kidnapper is. Only who his target is not.

After a moment she asks, “Will you tell Savage?”

“No.” I answer. “Not just yet.” 

Dick nods, understanding what both of us have not said. I’ll have Oracle check Walker out again. Just in case. For now? I don't think our host has to know about any new players. The game is complicated enough as it is.

“You say the rider was not alone?” I turn to Jones. “We have to assume he has Drax - whoever he is.”

Jones stashes the binoculars and picks up his hat. “He had someone on that horse.”

“Drax went under that awning - he didn't come out.” Dick picks up his backpack, urging Jones back into the jungle. We are too near the city walls to hang around talking. “And I don’t think he’s the Shadow.”

Dinah tightens her belt and follows. “Could Drax be hiding in the city? Could someone there have helped him vanish?”

I shake my head. Anything's possible, of course, but...

“I think he’s have the brains to clear out.” Dick says. “ On his own or with help. He wouldn't say around for the barbecue.”

True enough, although we didn't have time to search. If he is in the city, the locals will surely find him. Even outside the city, he would be on their turf. I doubt one untrained European could make his way back to Porto Chapac. Without rescue? Sooner or latter, he’ll be headed back for that altar.

Dinah stops and looks back at me. “Bruce?”

I reach a decision.

“We pull back with the prisoners we have. Before Teplitzin has the brains to start looking over the other side of his walls.” Not the happiest answer, but the one I need to give. “I value Drax’s life - but not as much as yours.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

It takes us six hours to get back to Captain Muwan and his troops. Less then I’d expected, considering that we were hauling prisoners, but for once the prisoners has the good sense not to make things harder. Apparently they caught on that - however nasty we might be - we weren’t going to have them for lunch. At least - not just yet. Under the circumstances...

Renwick insisted we wait until we were back in camp to interrogate the prisoners. Seems Savage invented some truth serum. I tend to question such drugs, but for the locals? Even the supposedly sophisticated Americans?

I offer the JSA variant pentothal that Doctor Midnight came up with, it’s not perfect, but it’s about the latest thing available, no dice. They’ll go with something the Doc thought up back in the fifties. Progress be damned. If Savage invented it, then it works. End of story. Savage is God.

Dick gives me a smirk, which I send back. How come *I* can’t get that kind of devotion in *my* sidekicks? Oracle bitches about her working hours, Tim carps about my effect on his social life, and Dick takes a stupid job that is likely to get him killed. 

None of *them* want to join me at Wayne Industries, and heaven knows I’ve offered.

Not even Jason. I suggested he go to Hudson University. Maybe get his MBA. He called me a fascist control freak who wanted to turn him into a mindless puppet. And a neurotic bastard weirdo who never wanted him to be happy. And a tin-plated dictator with delusions of grandeur. Of course, I know now that really means he loved me. Alfred and Leslie assured me of that. That yelling at your father is just part of being a son.

Christ, I miss my boy.

I would have preferred to conduct the questioning myself. Preferably with a telepath. At the least with serious drugs. No chance. Well, I can live with that. This is their turf. Muwan and Littlejohn should know the best questions to ask. And, frankly, I didn’t care enough to risk my cover. I had no immediate need for their information. Only two questions matter. Did they have the dagger? Did they kill the villagers? Muwan will get those answers out of the prisoners. Beyond that? Anything I want I can get from them later.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Dick and I listen quietly to Captain Muwans’s report. Courtesy costs nothing, and the young man is trying. It’s not his fault he’s...well, he’s human. And provincial. And not that well trained. And totally unaware of all of the above. But he *is* doing his job to the best of his limited ability.

The larger pirate was basically resistant. They use the word ‘ignorant’, but it comes down to the came thing. He didn’t talk. The girl did. Not that it makes much difference. Neither of them tell us much.

We are too far into he jungle for a Xerox machine, but Muwan carefully recounts the interrogation line by line.

No, they don’t have the dagger.

No, they did not burn the villages.

No, they do not know who did.

Yes, they do want the dagger.

Yes, they did attack the Amoza Rover Queen.

Yes, they did kidnap Dick and Dinah and the Captain and his wife.

No, they did not learn anything from them.

After about an hour of careful listening I ask my first question.

“What do you think she means by ‘different suit’?”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Four hours later I’m finally having dinner with Dick. Boiled corn mush and coal-roasted snake. Not as well done as the food back at the main house, but it makes a nice change from lizard.

Jones joined us for a while, but decided that Dinah made better company. I don’t blame him. After the way today went, Solomon Grundy would be better company.

Dick peels a wild banana and hands me half of it. “Drax didn't have the dagger?”

“Neither did Teplitzin,” I answer.

“Then why the parade?”

“Just an answer to the challenge to his authority.” I take a bite. The fruit is undersized, and dark red, but very sweet. I wonder why they don’t cover these in chocolate, rather then the lizards. “ Having trespassers on his turf make him look weak. Never a good thing for a living deity.” Or for any other politician, I add mentally, but I imagine godhood somewhat ups the ante. “He needs the political reinforcement if he plans to take the City without first having the dagger.”

Dick finishes his in one bite. “Which you are *sure* he doesn't have?”

“It would have been evident at the front of the processional. Or so both Jones and Littlejohn tell me.”

“They agreed on something?” 

Dick clutches at his chest, pretending shock. 

I take the opportunity to pull off another of his bananas. These really are tasty. I’ll have to have Alfred see if we have them in Gotham. Surely one of the specialty groceries has to carry them.

“It had to happen sometime,” I answer.

“So even if Teplitzin can’t kill the Jaguar God?”

I stand up, stretching. I need a nap. I need a Jacuzzi. I need a massage. This has been a long day, and dirt does not make a good mattress. I’m going to feel that fight in the morning. “He’ll still hope to take a shot at the City of Gold. It’s just less of a sure thing.”

Dick gives me his best Aunt Harriet imitation. “Young people nowadays. No respect for religion.”

I stifle a snort. With difficulty. Even when I’m furious at the world, Dick knows how to cheer me. Or at least give me something positive to buffer the gloom, even if it’s only one of his dreadful puns. 

“How about whoever it was back in the city?” he asks, finishing off the last of his corn mush. “Could they have it?”

I shrug. Anything's possible. A thought which, under the circumstances, makes me thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Get Oracle on it.” Dick urges. “If anything moves in this green hell, she will see...”

“I have a better idea.” I check my people. Jones is over with Littlejohn. They both look furious, so I assume it’s nothing important. Most likely some argument over some irrelevant point of history. Dinah is with them and she’s *not* upset, which tends to back the point. At other times I might take her with me, but under the circumstances? I’m better off not attracting attention. “You keep an eye on Renwick and company.” I tell Dick, shooting a thumb at the crew. “I’m going to see a man about a dog.”

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


	26. Savage Prophesy

Late afternoon. In Gotham it would be cooling off as the sky edged towards evening. Dick and I might be preparing for patrol. Or, if he’d convinced me that vacation means actually taking time off, we might be thinking about dinner at Florio’s after a nice round of handball at the Club. We could be relaxing in the steam room, or even the whirlpool. Dick won’t accept much else, but he does still let me keep up his membership. Says it gets me out of the Cave. 

The local air has every benefit of the Gotham Athletic Club steam room. Including the far-too-occasional whiff of air with the sour edge of bodies that *should* have showered. Mine among them. Unfortunately, when God was installing the outdoor sauna he apparently forgot the lap pool. Not to mention the Jacuzzi.

Most of Savage’s army is sacked out in whatever shade they can find or create. Sensible. We will head back to the city tonight, but until we have to move? They rest while they can.

No one stops me as I make my way past the sentries at the edge of the camp. Why would they? I am hardly likely to be an Aztec, and in any case the jungle is not yet at war.

I feel the eyes from the moment I reach the brush but it is a good hundred feet before I risk the first words.

“So. What do you think of the latest lies?” I ask the air.

“Drax’s woman is telling the truth.”

What! Not the voice I was expecting. I turn slowly. Whoever this is apparently wants to speak, not attack. And if he was hostile haste would not help.

As he comes into my vision, the speaker steps farther from the concealing brush.

The man is about my height. And we share the same tailor. Effectively. Cowled nomex-spandex bodysuit with the obligatory mask. His suit is purple and gray, with a strange pair of striped shorts. But - as Dick is so fond of saying - it’s not the color of your suit, it’s the strength of your kevlar. This man’s defenses look... entirely adequate.

At his foot sits a gray wolf. It’s doing the open-mouthed pant that would look charming in a Golden retriever. In a wolf? It’s simply a second opportunity for me to inspect a very large set of teeth. For a wild animal, that wolf has had excellent dental care.

Behind him, half visible in the greenery, stands a large white horse. It’s statute-still, which is unusual in the species, and watching me with considerably more intellect then I have come to anticipate from the average hay-burner.

I’d wonder how he got this close to a guarded camp with that entourage, but the answer is evident. He’s a professional.

Only a few seconds, but the time has allowed me to place him. The Phantom. Wrong place, wrong game, but the emblem is clear enough. Not to mention the allies.

“Mr. ... Wayne.” From the tone, I get the impression that he’s undecided if I own the name, or am just borrowing it.

“Mr. Walker, I presume.”

That is a guess, although the white horse makes it an easy guess. They were speaking of it in San Dismas. Strange choice for someone who is supposed to pass ‘as a shadow’. Normal I would have used his ‘professional’ name, rather then the personal, but as he used mine?

My new... acquaintance… steps forward slightly. “I had thought to remain apart, but it appears we have been working at parallel purposes.”

“Don’t tell me.” I shift subtly into better footing. Just in case. “You’re here to Kill the Jaguar God and...”

“Rule the City of Gold?” I can’t see his eyes, but one end of his mouth tilts up. It would be a smile, if this was the sort of man who smiled. “Not half. I have enough of my own territory to worry about... as do you.”

“Really?”

The purple figure moves easily into counter position. He does so openly. Easily. Not a defense, merely an answer. 

“Please.” He makes a half gesture, dismissing either my protest or my concern. “I recognized the gear. And I’ve met Wayne.”

“And?”

“I don’t know what you did with Wayne. Nothing uncomfortable I assume.” Another half gesture. Another dismissal. “But I’ve met Bruce Wayne, and while the face is convincing, the style...”

I ease back into a resting stance. “Not quite the playboy of Gotham?”

“Something of Gotham, but not the playboy. Although it *is* a very clever idea.” The approving tone grates slightly, perhaps because he sounds less impressed by the trick and more impressed that I managed to think it up on my own. “All those unusual trips to exotic places. Sometime when I’ve got a free afternoon I’ll have to sit down and figure out which were him and which were you, B...”

I hold up my hand. “Please.”

He shakes his head, bemused. “I should have caught the switch before. After all, it does explain how Bruce Wayne managed to hire one of the major players of the JSA for an arm-candy bodyguard.”

“And now that you know?”

“None of my business.”

“Because your business is?”

“Concluded.” As, his tone implies, is this conversation. “I have what I came for.”

Not convincing. He could have left without seeing me if he wanted - so whatever he's here for, he’s here for *something*.

“And that is?” I give him the opening. “If you are not here for the dagger, what are you after?”

“What I have.” Walker gestures behind him, to where I can see nothing. Perhaps something is there. Perhaps not. “Xander Drax. He is the one who first hired Templar to bring him the Jaguar’s Tongue.” The Phantom looks somehow past me. Not into the camp behind me. That is still quiet. Into... somewhere. “The Tongue of the Jaguar has great power - political as well as mystical - and the Pirate Brotherhood would love a new base.”

In the middle of green nowhere, at the ass end of an unnavigateable river? To do what? I’m used to villains with obscure bases. It was a fashion for a while, even with heroes. But this place? Other then Ivy and the strange sorts at Hidalgo I can’t think of anyone I could *give* it to. And as for the Sengh Brotherhood? The name gives me the vision of sailing ships and the Gray Ghost swinging over the deck on a rope.

I keep most of my opinion to myself, only asking. “Isn't piracy rather out of date?”

“Active as ever - and that's just counting what they steal with ships.” The Phantom flashes another shark smile. “Drax gained his rank leading hostile takeovers during the dot.com crash.”

OK. Software pirates I’ll believe. “Are you here to take the prisoners?” I ask. Not that I’d particularly object, but to get past Dick? And Dinah? Not likely. I decide that - should he want them - I’ll pull Dick and Dinah back and tell Jones to look clumsy.

“No. They are secure enough where they are, and they are minor without Drax. Let them find what justice they can from Savage.”

That name is pronounced with a certain approval. I would guess our Mr. Walker has a soft spot for our science -hero friend and his version of jurisprudence. Perhaps because he doesn’t know Savage very well. Or perhaps because he does, and dislikes the pirates enough that it doesn’t matter. I must confess, after what they did to my boat I’m feeling much the same way. And after what they did to Dick? They are murderers and torturers. Savage is justice enough.

“I’ll leave the matter of the dagger to you,” Walker continues. “Although you might want to watch out for the civilians. This game could get a bit dangerous for Grayson and Jones.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I answer, reassessing my opinion of Walker slightly down. “ Savage tells me he has control of matters, unless Teplitzin can somehow still can get hold of the Jaguar’s Tongue. And that that the dagger is useless to anyone else.”

“So Savage and his people believe. They’ve been hanging out in this jungle. I’ve been a bit... better informed.”

So now we are getting to what he came for. I nod politely. “So, the Ghost who Walks also listens.”

“Extremely carefully. It's amazing what you can hear on the wind. Also,” he grins slightly, rather ruining his mystical image, “the Skulls tell me things.”

“And what do they tell you?”

Walker slips back into his ‘Phantom” voice. “The skulls only speak for love and death, and they have given me a message for you. ‘The time of sacrifice is coming. A legend will die, a God will be born, and the greatest among you will risk his heart.’ So speak the Skulls of Bengalla.”

Crud. That’s worse babble then when Tempest gets going. Or Diana and her Prophecies of Delphi. Except for Zauriel - sometimes - I’ve yet to meet a cosmic power who can manage to phrase an answer in style-sheet English.

“Could you supply a few more details?” I ask. Not holding out much hope. I’ve dealt with mystics before. Still, I might as well try.

“The skulls speak as they speak. Such is the nature of magic.”

Right. Such is the nature of getting just enough data to make me sweat without giving me anything worthwhile as a clue.

“I’m beginning to doubt the usefulness magic.” I say. “It only seems to help after the fact.”

That gets a real grin from Walker. He may be the Guardian of the Eastern Dark and the Man Who Can Not Die, but from what I recall of Walker he’s also American raised, and likely not much more comfortable with the mumbo-jumbo aspect of the profession then I am - even if he works with it.

“So father often reminds me.”

He has a father? Living? My bepuzzlement must show somehow, because he adds, “Dad’s dead, of course - but in my family? Death only serves to make my relatives loquacious.”

Understood. “I hear my own, sometimes.”

“It’s not quite the same. The Ghost Who Walks can never die.”

Whatever.

I nod politely. “I’ll take your word on it.”

The Phantom does not move, but he vanishes.

Hmmm.

So that’s what it feels like.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

I turn to a green parrot that has been sitting quietly overhead in a mango tree.

“So J'onn? What do you make of Mr. Walker?”

The bird flutters down, morphing slowly into my friends more familiar shape. He loves doing the showy forms, but he had once mentioned that one as small as a parrot could become uncomfortable when held over a long period. Something about all the compression involved. And the humanoid form had to be more convenient for a conversation, because, while a bird form could talk, I didn’t doubt the human palate was certainly far easier to handle.

Once J’onn is fully shifted, he answers, “The Phantom was telling the truth -as he knows it.”

“As he know it?”

“I have the report from Cachiru. Skin cells were found under Templar’s nails. Not Xander Drax’s skin, or his woman’s. Templar was killed by a local, not by a European.”

Which is not conclusive, as Drax could have hired a local. But in combination with other facts? Drax didn’t get the knife. Templar did. Drax denied killing - at least in this case. Templar was dead. A local could have been hired, but any local skilled enough to take out the Templar would have stayed with Drax, and no one at the camp was on that level. So? Conclusion. Xander Drax was - in the purely technical meaning of the word - innocent.

Damn.

I consider sending a quick message to Oracle, now that I know our ‘man in purple’, but J’onn also knew the meta community. Many of them personally. And he is here.

“I don't have much on this Phantom.” I ask. “Isn’t he supposed to be just a jungle legend?”

“As opposed to an urban legend?”

“Touche.”

J’onn stretches a bit, thinking. “Walker felt like a good man.”

“Then I’ll take his word for now.” Although what its worth? A wrong answer on Drax and a prophecy vaguer then one of Nigma’s clues? “So that leaves us with?”

“No, Bruce.” J’onn answers. “It leaves you without. Without the dagger that is the fulcrum of all of this.”

Now and always, it comes back to the knife. I personally might vote to just leave it lost, but I know enough about such things to be convinced that they always reappear - usually at the worse possible time. Or is it that their reappearance makes the time the worst. Either way, I have six days of ‘vacation’ left, and I’m not going to enjoy any of it against a background of homicide. So?

“That knife is somewhere in this jungle and I want it found.”

J’onn raised one eyebrow. “You are thinking of calling a general search?”

That would involve the JLA as much as an open intervention.

“A search, yes. General – no.” I smile. “I need an oracle. But not *my* Oracle.”

 

*END CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


	27. Green Secrets

When you have eliminated the impossible, what is left must be true. But when you have eliminated the possible? Call for help.

I don’t have the best contacts for what must be done now. The JLA does - but I still hesitate to call this in. They would come. They would even be polite and serious about it. Well, all except Eel, and the day he’s polite? I’d say it was a sign of the end of the world, but I’ve *seen* Plasticman at the end of the world, and he was as annoying as ever.

No, it’s not that the JLA would decline. It’s that they should. No resource is unlimited, and the squabbles of a few jungle villages does not justify diverting that level of power. Like pulling a kitten from a tree while the forest burns. We would lose more then we gain.

Some days I wish I was like Clark. Better yet, Marvel. All potentiality, and enough power to play innocent and grab for the kitten. But I’m human, and all human strength starts with knowledge of human weaknesses.

I shake my head. This is no time to get maudlin.

Fortunately, if I don’t have personal power, I do have friends. One very good friend. That friend has friends. Friends strong enough to handle this corner of the world - even if they aren't quite at the level of watching over the rest of it. So El Hombre Veridad will come out of memory one last time, and *his* friends will help *another* friend. Who - if there is anything to this Jaguar legend - very likely will help her in return. Because it’s a small world, in the end. All of which explains why the four of us are standing in the middle of the jungle a few hundred yards from the camp and watching for a parrot.

Jones still thinks I’m crazy, but he also still knows I’m paying. And he’s tentatively moved me into the category of ‘serious’ crazy. Since our little talk in the jungle he’s begun to accept that I’m not quite the dilettante I tried to sell him on back in Santa Amoza. Not that he’s said anything, but I’ve noticed he’s stopped trying to stand between me and danger. It might just be because he wouldn't miss me, but I’m more inclined to believe he’s concluded that I can take care of myself - whatever my game is.

I had some hesitation before including Jones. He’s not really my people. Not really even ‘our’ people. But he’s not *not* our people either. And - he’s seen enough already that whatever more he sees - he can deal with.

I’m braced for another sudden ‘mysterious’ appearance, but this time my visitor has a small light show as a curtain raiser. Not much, just a rainbow sprinkle, but it’s enough to indicate which direction to watch. Courtesy, showmanship, or just the nature of her powers? I haven't spent enough time in this area to be quite sure. Not that it matters.

The ‘ White Witch’ of Argentina, Mistress of the Elements, forms quietly at the edge of the clearing. Real power doesn't need to descend to flash.

She’s dressed like the ladies at Savage’s dinner party. White dress, square cape, big hat, lots of gold. It looks better on her. Of course, that may be just be because she looks better, but I’m trained enough to know the aura of ‘serious jewelry’. If there’s a Tiffany’s of Mesoamerica - Salamanca has their credit card.

The margay curled up in her arms hops down and gives me a nasty look. So, that’s not J’onn. Just a familiar. From the look in those ice green eyes it knows who to blame for the sudden trip, and would like to get familiar with my legs. Preferably with a freshly sharpened claw. I give the creature a *look* and it backs off, going to curl around Dinah’s leg. She - poor judge of character that she can be - cuddles the beast and murmurs “nice kitty”.

Not likely. But also not my problem.

I take its mistresses hand, bowing slightly. “Miss Salamanca.”

“Mr.?” she pauses for a moment, “Wayne?”

She’s not asking who I am, just what I want to be called.

Damn. That’s the problem with mystics. Of course, it could be worse. I could be in full rig. Not that it would change matters. She hasn't so much as moved, and I get the very clear impression that she knows everything including the window I broke when I was five.

Of course, I know how to give that impression too - but in her case, it’s probably the truth.

Another wave of her hand and a nearly forgotten shape appears beside her.

She smiles at J’onn. Or rather at El Hombre Veridad, which is the shape J’onn has assumed for this meeting. No need for an introduction there. El Hombre Veridad is an old friend to her. One of the senior heroes of South America. She’s accepting the rest of the crew - myself included - because he has vouched for us.

The lady apparently recognizes Dinah too. Not surprising. I can’t place any specific mission they shared, but Black Canary did a lot of work in this area back when Hell froze over. Besides which, I’m beginning to suspect Oracle is running a ‘girls club’ for meta’s out of her Clocktower.

“Salamancizin. Honored.” Jones has her hand half way to his lips before he thinks better of it. Either because Dinah is watching, or simply because he’s aware of exactly what forces this lady represents. Either one would be enough to put the fear of God into a rational man. Possibly several Gods.

Dick settles for a nod from his spot at the edge of the trees. Not unfriendly, just very professional. After I told him about my surprise visitor he’s decided to take his guard duties seriously.

The lady leads us out into the center of the small clearing and hold up her bag of charms. “You realize the locals will probably try to kill us if they see this?”

I smile. OK, I show my teeth. Close enough. “You realize that I don’t care?” 

Which is true on several levels. Even if I shared Savage’s somewhat elevated opinion of his people’s abilities, my own crew is at least equal. With J’onn here? Bug squash time. He doesn’t flash it, but he’s one of the two mortals on the planet who could *easily* be equated to Kal in terms of raw power. And J’onn has had years to perfect his skills. Not to mention being one of the few actually *trained* meta’s in the business. 

Of course, I can’t say that to Salamanca. She doesn’t know J’onn on that level. So I just bow again. “If I’m going to have to deal with defunct deities, at least I can take a chance on the real thing.”

A good answer, to judge from her face. Ha! And Orin says I have no diplomacy. 

Salamanca raises two fingers, drawing a circle in the air. It glows gold.

A ‘crystal’ ball appears in mid-air. It swirls, flashing softly, as she chants “zer Sot’z” and “zer berri Ix”, until with a last scattering of sparks she calls “leiho batean irekiko zaizkizu”.

Images appear, pale gray against the phantom smoke. First the pirates, then the burning village, then the blackened shell of the River Queen. Over them all floats the ghost image of an arm-long knife, and behind them the shadow of a cat.

Slowly - far too slowly - the smoke clears to show a movie-clear vision of the Jaguar’s Tongue. It’s lying on a mat, which in turn is draped over a stone altar. The stone looks worn, with fresh scrapes and raw brown splotches where I assume vegetation clung before being hacked away. At either side a guard stands. I assume they are guards. The two men are dressed in blanket capes and bright skirts, much like Captain Muwan or Teplitzan’s men, but with new-looking AK-47’s slung across their chest.

The angle shifts down to show more of the camp. It looks like Savage’s city or Teplitzan’s, except for a general air of abandonment. To my eye it is Chichen Itza *before* urban renewal. More the site of a National Geographic special then a base for revolution. Jones must see something else, however, because he tenses up and mutters ‘Cuzco’. I have no idea what that means, but I assume he’ll tell me later. For now? I scan for clues.

There are few. Too few.

Several modern tents have been erected among the fallen buildings that surround the main square. No markings, although they are likely surplus to someone's army. I suppose I’ll trace the purchase eventually, although it doesn't look like a large enough order to set off alarms.

More men with guns standing here and there, and a few with fancy hats walking around with the self-important air of a third-grade hall warden. Officers, I assume. A few unhappy unarmed types trying to look busy cracking corn or hauling wood or pulling down more vines. Could be prisoners or slaves. Could just be unlucky grunts pulling punishment duty. First rule of military organization. Somebody has to take KP.

I wish I could hear them. Not that I would understand the language, although Jones would, but I’d like to know if they are speaking Spanish. The troops look local, but that means nothing. So did most of Drax’s men.

The angle shifts again, pulling back to give a more panoramic view of the camp. I can see water, so they most likely are near the river. If they had continued downstream while Jones and I traveled overland, they could easily be near the City if Gold by now. They could be. Unfortunately, the scenery doesn’t tell me if they are.

A rough canteen area has been set up to one side. That looks considerably more ‘native’ then the camp, but adequate. Corn porridge, to guess from the large pot sitting over the open fire. Several bunches of bananas. Some sort of roast mammal - possibly a very large pig - has been reduced to a platter full of bones. Not a human - despite Littlejohn’s comments about local habits. There is a fresh fur hanging nearby, and the skull is wrong.

In front of the main tent three men in very fancy hats are sitting by a fire. Two are unknown to me, but the third? Him I recognize.

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  
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Trivia note: ‘Leiho batean irekiko zaizkizu’ is a computer command in Mayan. It means ‘open a new window’. (Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.)


	28. A Man of Vision

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

Helicopter. Not unexpected, as they were what we were waiting for. As soon as we were safely past Teplitzin’s sphere of control, Renwick had sent a runner to Muwan, who in turn sent a runner to the City of Gold. Not quite Western Union, but as the guy must have been a greyhound in his previous life? It worked well enough. The return runner caught up with us about the time we had started our delayed lunch.

Renwick announced the main body of the army would march back, but the ‘vital personnel’, meaning Savage’s posse and mine - would be back in home in time for dinner.

That was one of my reasons for pushing this quiet visit. I’d back my people against Savage, but I’d rather not push the point. And once in the city, I doubt we would have been able to sneak away for this little séance.

“My apologies, Miss Salamanca.” I glance at the shadow overhead, then at Dick. He is already stepping back. “That is our signal to depart.”

She smiles. “It would not do to keep your ride waiting.”

I signal Dinah to get Jones and head back to the camp. She drops the cat and takes Jones by the arm. It takes a tug or two to draw the archaeologist out of his scholastic trance, but after a few seconds she gets him moving.

Salamanca nods at the couple. “Go with peace.” 

She closes her hand, and the vision-globe slowly fades. “I have shown you all I can, Ahaw Sotz’. Would that I could do more.”

“You have done more then I had hoped.” Which is very true. I may not yet know everything, but I know that I *will* know. All the pieces are before me, like the shattered parts of one of Jones’ ancient mosaic floors, and now it is my task to lay them out until the full pattern is clear.

But that is for later. For now, I smile at the lady. “If I can ever repay the favor?”

“More then you already have?” She holds out her arms, and the cat jumps up, flashing me another nasty look. “There are no debts among our kind.”

“None we can repay.” I reply. “Still, if you’re ever in Gotham?”

“I do not often leave my homeland. Still, should the time come? I will gladly let you and the Ch’en Men show me the ‘night life”.” The cat yowls, and she rubs it’s tufted ears gently before adding, “Of either sort.”

I turn to my disguised friend. “Thank you, also, El Hombre Veridad.”

He shakes my hand solemnly. “I am always there for those who defend the peace of this land.”

The cat gives a final hiss as both Salamanca and ‘El Hombre Veridad’ vanish in a swirl of golden light.

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Renwick wants to talk with Littlejohn, and Mayfair and Brooks apparently never get parted, so I volunteer to wait for the second trip. It’s not that long a delay, and I too would as soon keep my people together.

The flight back to the camp is finished in relative silence - at least on my part. Jones and Dinah are huddled together, and Dick has volunteered to back up the pilot, so they are chattering together in the front seats. Which is fine. I seriously need to think.

We are back at the city and dressing for dinner before I can call a briefing unobserved.

K’usal has delivered a second tux, so Savage’s princess has evidently resigned herself to having Dick at her table. I suppose, after my little speech, she has managed to convince herself that he is at least a commissioned officer. Good, because otherwise I would have to be ‘tired’ again, and tonight I *do* want to talk to Savage. Eventually.

Dick doesn’t look thrilled. He never does if the situation involves wearing a tie. Still, he will wear it to please me.

Dinah also has a new dress. Or an old dress. She seems less pleased with this model then the last one. She shows it to us before disappearing into the bathroom. It is black and slinky. I have no idea what she’s complaining about.

Jones is wearing his suit without comment. Has set aside his sardonic attitude in favor of a through and very professional briefing on the details he saw in the image of the city. No vague theories here. He knows what I need, and he gives it.

According to him, the uniform styles are classic Inca. As are the more elaborate costumes we saw on two of the three leaders. The one with the fur is a priest - of the Jaguar cult natch. I’m beginning to develop an allergy to cats. The guy with all the feathers is a ‘king’. Or at least a prince. Apparently the difference is more a case of ‘who are you asking’ then anything as organized as medieval Europe. In any case, he’s one more political player - just like Tepi-boy.

That ties it to the codex we found in the pirates camp. I’d assume that we now know where Drax was headed. Not that it helps either of us. Jones couldn't read the map, and if any of our two captive can, they managed not to tell Renwick.

He also ties it to the scrap we found at the burned village. 

I am impressed.

Even with the discolorations of the stones, Jones managed to sight-read most of the altar inscription. A calendar date, of course. Apparently it’s always dates. In this case? Sot’z Ik. Again. A day I begin to suspect - at least for me - will live in infamy. 

Dick listens to the entire lecture attentively. Only when Jones has finished does he ask. “What did you see, Bruce?”

“Me?”

Who else?” Dick makes a face to show he is *not* fooled by my innocent tone. “I know you, Bruce.”

“The third man.”

Dinah sticks her head out from the bathroom, “The European looking guy in the really funky hat?

“I recognized him,” I answer.

“Not good?” Dinah steps back a moment, apparently to grab her hairbrush, then comes out to join the discussion.

“Very not good.” I think about it, and decide they will remember the name. “Senor Auturo Gomez.”

“Holy crap.” Dick is half-way out of his chair, headed nowhere. “The lumber baron?” He paces around the bed, outrage in every step. “No wonder we’ve had trouble on our tail ever since we left Pueblo Molino.”

“I thought it was only gossip when Martin Juarez quizzed us so closely on the Jaguar’s Tongue, but now?”

Dick hits the wall and turns sharply. “What did we know and when did we know it?”

“Exactly.” I turn in my chair, tracking Dick as he circles the room. “And probably also were we on the River Chak to get it back. 

I run a rough mental count. Our group, and Walker with his animals, and most likely Savage’s agents. Any more players and we would have needed traffic cops. Gomez has been isolated on his rancho for decades. It must have worried him when he pulls this theft and suddenly half the world seemed to be coming his way. We didn’t know what he was up to, but he did. That made him feel vulnerable... and the jump from vulnerable to stupid is generally a short one.

“The other guys. Inca, you said?” Dinah looks at Jones, who nods. “Makes sense, in a sick way. If I remember my eighth-grade world history, they would be the third local power in this region. Aztec, Maya, Inca. If we count Gomez as the ‘Spanish’ it pretty much gives us a full house.”

“Royal Flush.” Jones puts the accent on flush. By tone, scatological.

“So this is an equal opportunity slaughter?” Dick spins. “Everybody gets to play?” 

Dinah dodges past Dick and takes his chair. “Do you think these guys burned the villages?”

“Possible.” I consider the point. That might fit the time line, if Gomez was marching beside us following the river. “Although I still have the question of *why*. From the way Savage talks, those river villages would have been considered Inca. Potential allies?” I make the last a question and aim it at Jones.

“Or potential competitors?” he suggests. “Clear out the other contenders and rule by default? Consolidate the survivors because they are too scared to tell you no?”

As good a theory as any. Not that it matters. I’m still considering the probabilities when Dick asks the question that counts.

“What do you think they are after?”

“At a guess?” I turn to watch his face. “I think they plan to Kill the Jaguar God and Rule Over the City of Gold.”

He freezes, then grins. “Gee. Do you think?”

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Dinner is an exercise in strained good manners.

This is officially a celebration. After all, Teplitzin was foiled. He’s the only one they see as a real threat, and today he lost both the chance of the dagger and a great deal of face. Apparently loosing a sacrifice, even if he can’t prove that Savage and company was behind it, is going to cost him enough mojo to put him out of the running for Chief Deity.

Unofficially? I’ve been to happier funerals.

Savage is edgy, his wife is on the edge of tears, and Captain Muwan is looking over his shoulder like the next knife is going to be aimed at him. Possible. He hasn't married into the family yet.

Brooks and Mayfair fall silent after a single round of insults.

Littlejohn is sticking to words of three syllables or less.

Renwick has apparently given up speech altogether.

Some of that is from exhaustion. Renwick, Littlejohn, Brooks, and Mayfair have all been up more then forty hours now. That has to take its toll. They are fit, but they are also in their seventies. Brooks is in his eighties. They don’t look it, but I can do the math. Unless Savage had picked up the Fountain of Youth along with the City of Gold, there were going to be some very sore soldiers in the morning.

I’m already feeling it, and I’m still on the right side of middle age. Whatever Dick may say.

Mental note - see if I can talk Dick into a massage.

Still, the turkey mole is excellent. And tryptophan is a natural pain killer. As is chocolate. Three good reasons for a second helping.

We eat quickly and quietly, focused on the food.

By desert Patricia Renwick has pulled rank - and her husbands arm - and hauled him off for some very needed sleep before he can actually land in the lime pie. 

Muwan has also made his excuses. Officially, he’s headed to the command office to be available to the troops when they arrive. Unofficially? I’d put down money that there's a cot in that office. Virginia Renwick goes with him. Medicinal support, I suppose. She looks like she intends to make him feel all better.

Dinah has simply vanished with Jones. Less polite, but Princess Mona is so happy to see them go that she’s willing to pass on the formalities.

Beyond that? It’s a celebration without much to celebrate.

We *don’t* have the knife, and that is the bottom line.

*They* don’t have the knife, and they’re running out of time.

Sotz’ Ix.

The Jaguar and the Bat. Of course, the second name is just a coincidence. These calendars were carved long before the first log hut went up in Gotham, much less before there was a Bat to stalk that city. Even so. After Mr. Walkers strange little prophecy, the coincidence leaves me with an uneasy feeling.

 

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I wait until after dinner to bring up my questions.

The ladies have vanished, along with the younger men. Only the main crew and myself have been invited for final drinks in the study. With departures for exhaustion, that means Savage, Brooks, Mayfair, and Littlejohn.

Littlejohn slumps down at the desk. That must be ‘his’ place. I can’t judge if he’s actually making notes or just covering up exhaustion. Probably both.

Brooks brews up the cacaw, and in this case I take it. This is *not* recreational drug use. It tastes like a bitter chocolate espresso. Not bad, and I need the energy. Tomorrow could be a *very* long day.

“Doctor Savage?” I ask, sitting forward on the well-stuffed leather seat. “What can you tell me about the Inca?”

“The hill tribes?” He sounds surprised at my question. “They have nothing to do with this.”

“So there is a presence?”

Mayfair drops onto the sofa. “Amhacutec. He’s a bum” 

Brooks pours two more cups and goes over to sit on the sofa beside Mayfair. For once, it isn’t to disagree. “The man may call himself a prince, but a cluster of mountaintop villages is hardly the political equivalent of Teplitzin, or even the rulers of the lesser cities.”

Which makes two yeses in the form of a no. Not a happy phenomenon.

“This Amhacutec. Is he as ambitious as Teplitzin?”

“Amhacutec Inca.” Savage stares into the depths of his jade -studded cacaw cup, considering. “He might like to be, but he has neither the men nor the gold. I let him ‘rule’ the hill tribes - as does Teplitzin - because they are more trouble than profit.”

“Avaricious, but effectively ineffacious.” Littlejohn adds. “The absence of assets impedes affluence.”

Translated, they are too broke to cause trouble. Make that one more vote of Dinah’s revolution. I like wealth. Hell, I *love* being rich. I put considerable energy into *staying* rich. Richer. It beats the crap out of all available alternatives. But some people take the attitude far too far, with too little grasp of the responsibility entailed. If it wasn’t for the prospect of a general barbecue, I’d almost be willing to let Gomez and company take the place. Almost.

“Those are the hill tribes you mentioned my first night here as blocking the path to Ixchel and San Luis de Tula?” I look over the crew. “If this Amhacutec controls both mountain terrain and part of the river...?” I leave the question unspoken, but evident.

“Admitted lately we’ve been having some few very minor problems in that area recently.” Brooks answers cautiously, eyes on his boss. “Amhacutec has been taking advantage of our temporary distraction to exact tribute from some of the more distant settlements, but...”

I ignore him, focusing on Savage. “If this Amhacutec had the dagger - what could he do? Does it mean the same thing to them? Could he use it like Teplitzin could to make a claim on this city?”

“He could not be so foolish.” Savage snaps, slapping his cup in the table. “Even if the Inca had pretensions, he would never have the troops to take this city - or to keep it. He’d be conquered within the year.”

“Even if he had modern weaponry?”

“Ferget it.” Monk waves his now-empty cup. “No chance.”

“I assure you he does not have modern weaponry.” Brook stands, collecting the empty cups. “A few stray Indians may have managed to barter or steal rifles off of the mercadories, but... we can easily control that once more important matters are settled.”

“But if they did?” I press. “If they had full access, with a steady supply line for ammo, supplies, whatever.”

Savage gives me a ‘patient’ look. “If Amhacutec Inca had a modern army, then I suppose we would have to take him seriously. But then,” he adds with a smile, “ if you could ‘leap over tall buildings’ you'd be Superman.”

Some I know would argue that point, but....

I stand. “I may not be Superman, but Amhacutec Inca *is* on the march. And if that dagger is anywhere? It’s with him.”

 

END CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

Ch’en Men technically translates as ‘black eagle’ or black bird’. I don’t think there is a word for canary, per se.


	29. Resolve

Necessity, they say, is the mother of invention. It’s a mother of some sort, that much is true.

It takes about three seconds for the prospect to sink in. Then? Chaos. Organized chaos.

Poor Captain Muwan gets dragged out of the bed he’s NOT in. At least, about half his clothes are still on - if wrinkled - so I figure he hadn’t gone to sleep.

He calls in a few others I hadn’t met before. Relatives on Mrs. Savage’s side, I assume. Representatives of the ‘allied’ cities - which around here apparently means first cousins - catching the first helicopter out. For people who have stood still for six hundred years, they sure know how to hurry when they have to.

Thomas Roberts gets called via satellite, Apparently that’s how they keep access to the more ‘real world’ stuff. He’s the electronics man, and the link to whatever reality they still keep in touch with. The national Weather Service provides a satellite shot of the planet every fifteen minutes, available to anyone with the computer access and the money. Batman has an account, of course. So does Wayne Enterprises. So, evidently, does the Hidalgo Trading Company.

Local intelligence isn't the DEO, but they do have the basic concept.

Within the half hour Littlejohn is looking at grainy but effective photos of Hidalgo, and checking that against the NGS geological map for lights where there shouldn't be any. Candles and braziers probably won’t show, even on the time-delayed photos, but electrical lights probably will - and the camp equipment looked modern enough to expect that.

I should snatch a combat nap while we wait. 

I don’t.

There is so little time.

I’m on line with WayneTech checking for a listing of radio frequency errors, hoping I can find whatever unlicensed band Gomez is communicating on, when Littlejohn calls us over. He has a set of light readings along the river. Not bright, but unexplained and moving in the right direction. They match with what I saw in Salamanca’s vision. Not that I can tell these people that, but I can agree that it looks suspicious. Very suspicious. If we can’t find Amhacutec anywhere else?

I wish Dick was here, but he needs his sleep. I need him to have his sleep. Tomorrow will be... unpleasant.

I head back to my linkage. Catching their frequency would be a long shot, but the chance of overhearing their plans makes it work the try. I’ve been lucky before.

Brooks and Mayfair have been dispatched on quick helicopter overflights to the Pauhatun Mountains. Amhacutec Inca’s stronghold. Make that his *former* stronghold. The villages are intact, but from the air there is no visible movement. No light. No smoke.

Brooks and Mayfair land in Apuamarca and radio back. The man is *definitely* not at home. In fact, except for women, children, and a very few very elderly men, the place is empty. 

No one will answer where the men are. Gone, they tell Mayfair. Just ‘gone’.

Perhaps the villagers are stubborn. Perhaps scared. Perhaps they truly don’t know. Either way, the one word says it all.

That makes the village defenseless. I’d like to think that was trust in his neighbors but more realistically - Amhacutec just doesn't care. These are the expendable.

Savage grumbles, insisting that he needs answers. I don’t. Like the dog that didn’t bark in the night, Amhacutec’s absence has given me all the answers I need.

“Doctor Savage?”

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

“I have a confirmed radio signal from that location. Scrambled, but active. Moving with the lights.”

He walks over to examine the cluster of unlisted transmission sites on my screen. “So you believe Amhacutec is along the river?”

I trace the path of dots with my finger, echoing the curves of the river. “Amhacutec, Arturo Gomez, and very likely your knife.”

I print out the screen and shut down.

“Captain Muwan?” Savage looks over at the young man, who is in quiet but serious conference with Renwick and a pale-looking Pau’ah. “Prepare to reassemble the army.”

Bad choice. Half the troops are exhausted from the previous excursion, and besides, every objection I had to a frontal assault on Teplitzin still holds here. Mores the pity. But that argument isn’t going to fly with a crew that still believes in tactical force, so I make the question... “Do we have the time?”

I can see Savage count. One day to the river. One day back. Four days left until Sotz’ Ix. That leaves almost no room for error.

“A strike team will move faster,” I press.

Savage frowns. “That’s what you seem to prefer.”

I could point out that my tactics have worked out so far, but why? He already knows that. So I just answer. “Yes.”

My preference, and Savage's only hope.

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I take off my shoes before I enter our room. Useless. Dick sits up before I clear the door. Eyes still closed, he holds out one of Dinah’s ‘Canary’ earrings.

“You need?”

“Not yet,” I answer, dropping my dinner jacket over the back of a chair. “Let her sleep.” My shirt follows. Alfred’s voice whispers I should hang them properly, but one of the servants will collect them in the morning and tonight I am *trashed*.

Dick rubs his eyes, clearly trying to clear the ‘sand’. “We go?”

“In the morning,” I answer. Far too early in the morning, but there’s no help for that. If it were physically possible I would start now. “You should be sleeping too.” He has had what? Three hours at most. Perhaps less. And after that battle? I wish I could take him off line for at least twenty-four hours, but I can not manage my work without him.

I tap my com unit. One more call to Oracle, just to be sure that...

“Sleep.” Dick stops me with a word.

“Soon.”

“Now.”

He is right. I need sleep. I move over to the cot, trying not to disturb Dick further.

“No, Bruce.” Dick’s voice hardens in the darkness. “Here. Now.”

A tap in the head board echoes his meaning.

I give up, and sit on the edge of the mattress.

Dick pulls me against his shoulder. “So what went on?”

“We found the killers - I think. Amhacutec Inca. Lights down by the river. Tech level matches the vision.” I wince inside, having to say those words. I hate the magical mystical irrational side of the work. Which may sound a bit strange, coming from a man who built a mythos, but it was the criminals who were supposed to be the superstitious lot. “Littlejohn says there used to be an Inca city there, back whenever. Muwan is finalizing the maps now. We leave at dawn.”

“We?”

“Us. Dinah. Jones unless he objects.” Little chance of that. I saw his eyes when he saw that city. “Muwan,” I continue, “and whoever Savage wants.” Make that who he *has*. Yesterday we got who he *wants* on this mission, but they are old men, and if I am tired? No matter. Dick and I could handle worse alone if there was need.

Dick brushes back my hair. “And Walker?”

“The Phantom? He’s going back to Santa Amoza.”

“He’s just gonna dump this creep on you?” I feel Dick jerk under my cheek. “Send J’onn to tell Walker to get his skinny white... horse... back here and deal with his own damn villains.” 

“No Dick.” I stroke his chest, urging him to quiet. “Let it go. His skulls have spoken. He has delivered their message. It’s my duty now.”

“So this Phantom is just gonna take Drax, and he expects the Batman to clean up his mess?” Dick’s outrage is a rumble under my ear. “Who does that guy think...”

“He is?” I brush my fingers over Dick's lips, trapping his answer. “He is the Phantom. The Ghost that Walks.”

“And that means he gets to blow off...”

“Bruce Wayne? A Gotham civilian?”

Dick settles back, grumpy. “Even so. Kal wouldn’t...”

“Kal is Kal.”

“Kal is *Superman*.” That last word is said in a tone of still-some-awe. Not quite the adoration of Dick’s childhood, and of course not entirely undeserved, but... I suppress a twinge of jealousy as Dick continues. “ And he still respects his allies. Even the ones I’d like to tell off myself, like Gardner. If *he* can show respect to the Warrior’s crowd, then this guy...” 

Can honor the Bat? That’s a sweet thought, coming from the Bat’s greatest critic, but just now? I end the argument with a kiss.

“Phantoms obey Phantoms. Twenty generations worth. He has been told to leave with Drax, and he must do...”

“What his dead father told him? That is so...” Dick freezes suddenly, then picks up smoothly. “Understandable. Hey, a mans gotta do what a mans gotta do. We head out in the morning. No prob.”

I shift away. “So I’ll leave you to get some sleep.”

I am half-standing when an iron grip clamps over my biceps. “I’ll get some sleep, but not alone.”

“You need...” Rest, I mean to say.

“You. Here. Now.”

I surrender, sliding under the sheet edge that Dick holds up.

“Don’t worry. I got you an extra blanket. And another pillow.” Dick pulls out one of his stack and hands it to me. “I swung by the kitchen after dinner.” Dick must feel me tense, because he gives my back a little rub and chuckles. “Relax, Bruce. Just to thank the cook. And when I mentioned your miserly attitude towards sharing... K’usal got us some more stuff. Didn’t want a guest to lose any sleep.”

“I thought you said?”

“*Savage* is an idiot” Dick answers, “but his people are people.”

“And they?” I hate to say ‘don’t mind'. It’s such a concession to small-minded-ness. But then, Babs constantly reminds me to be careful for Dick’s sake. It hurt enough that Ms. Mona called him a servant. If they ever ... even... suggested...

Dick snuggles, breaking my train of thought. “They think it’s crazy. But then, they think *all* the ‘Spanish’ are crazy. And a man who would go swimming in the Rio Chak for fun?” 

“Completely crazy?”

“You got it.” A soft kiss lands on my ear. “But I told them I *liked* you crazy, ‘cause it made you crazy for me.”

Dick’s logic is always ... different. “So then they handed you half the bedding in the town?”

“Sure. ‘Cause I wanted it. And ‘cause I asked nicely, one human to another.” Dick rolls his face into the hollow of my neck. I can feel his eyelashes brush closed. “Like you always told me. There's an advantage to being on chatting terms with the folks who *really* run things.”

 

*END CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE*


	30. Moving Out

Breakfast is quiet - in a noisy sort of way. Lots of background clatter, but very little casual talk. It’s just before dawn, and most of the assembly has the half-hung-over look of people used to at least an hour more sleep.

Mrs. Savage has moved matters out to the patio, so people can come and go as required. Makes it easier on the cooks. Besides, this way she doesn't have to set out a seating plan. I almost sympathize. Some of the visiting dignitaries are prickly enough to give Alfred pause. Princess Mona is apparently cousin to everyone, and so target one.

As Tim says, there are advantages to being an orphan.

I follow Dick to a small table near the foliage. Excellent choice. Nice observation point, and ever so slightly out of the main chaos. He’s managed to charm the cook into fried eggs - although likely not chicken eggs - and something respectably similar to ham. Capybara. According to Jones, more guinea pig then farm pig. Whatever. It salt-cures nicely.

I snatch a second piece from Dick's plate. Not on the Alfred-approved diet, but this *is* my vacation. Besides, I’m confident today will provide more than enough exercise to work off the extra calories.

Dinah and Jones join us. Dinah is carrying two full plates. Jones none. Jones looks a bit shocked when he realizes they are both hers, but after a moment he concedes the point, and heads back to get his own. 

I nod as hey join us, but say nothing. Nothing to say.

Savage has already announced his crew. Mayfair, Brooks, and Muwan. Backed by twenty of Muwan's best men. Backed by the remaining half of the City armed forces.

Sergeant Pau’ah assures me that the men he has chosen are all trained commandos, and familiar with the river area. They should be able to hold a position until the main army can rescue us, if necessary. I agree, but add that I hope the need will not arise.

Renwick is saying behind with the big-wigs, ready to take care of the dagger if - make that when - we get it back. Littlejohn is staying in bed. Against his will, but by shut-down last night he was looking like the guest of honor at Dracula’s dinner party and Savage has remanded him over to Doctor Virginia.

Jones is - subdued. I get the impression that - as much as he would like to crow at snatching his ‘discovery’ out from under the nose of his rival, this is just not the place or time.

Dinah is tired, but willing. A professional. I can count on her.

Dick is... himself. Chatting with the less starchy of the visiting notables, listening to Pau’ah as he details his troops training, and encouraging me to eat. I don't know where he finds the strength. Youth, perhaps. Perhaps. I remember being his age, but I was never that young.

We will take the helicopter to the river, landing safely just below Xek’or Falls, still in Savage-controlled territory. There we will transfer to small boats, sailing down the river as far as possible. If we meet no opposition, we expect to beach just before the Tz'yak Rapids, after which we plan to hike overland to our as-yet-unnamed target. Once we reach the city, I will take over.

The main force will remain at Xek’or unless called. They should be close enough to count as support, but out of Amhacutec’s zone of informants, and hopefully out of danger.

A good plan. If all goes perfectly, we should have the dagger by dawn.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Helicopter ride to river. Again - quiet in a noisy sort of way. This time we all have headphones, so we could talk, but I'd rather my people took this chance to rest.

Dinah has taken the back seat, with Jones as a backrest. He’s mission focused, so he’s keeping his hands in *almost* legal territory. Dinah has always had a taste for the ‘bad boys’. Jones wouldn’t be my first choice for family, but he’s not... unacceptable. They do look rather sweet together.

WayneTech pays for a lot of archaeological surveys on its distant development sites. Normally we’ve hired Carter’s people but recently? He’s been a bit less available since Hawkman went back to the JSA. 

Mental note: Check with Fox about upcoming needs.

Dick is up with the pilot. I offered to take that chair, but he insisted I needed the extra rest more than he did. I’d argue, but in this it would do me no good. Dick is always first out, last in, and he won’t let up on himself until ‘his’ team is back safe at base.

I’ve tried on occasion to point out that he is 'my’ team - not the other way around - but now that just gets me his ‘yes Bruce’ smile. Which mean no, of course. Better then the fights it used to get me. I think.

I have concluded that Dick thinks of himself as *Alfred's* partner when it comes to ‘managing the Bat’. I suspect I should object on grounds of dignity. I am, after all, JLA. Not to mention CEO and sundry other status initials. I should, but being managed by Dick just feels good.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Xek’or. A nice little clearing by the river with easy landing for a helicopter and higher ground for a camp safely above the damp. Not quite a constructed pier, but a gentle curve in the river that stills the water enough to guarantee an easy launch.

The boats are waiting for us. J’onn too, I hope. Not that I can actually identify him in this life-filled stew, but there *is* one rather interested-looking parrot perched just over the launch site. I give it a faint nod - just in case.

I had wondered what they planned to use for river transportation. The Amoza River Queen was comfortable, but both Oracle and I had expected that I would need to abandon it before we got this deep. Not that the charts are all that reliable, but there is a lot of white water higher up the river - even at the ‘high river’ time of the year. Now I have my answer. Nothing too exotic. Your standard canoe - hacked out of whatever wood the locals use. Rather nice craftsmanship. Nothing as fancy as an u’wa, but given the local tools? Not bad. 

I count seven of them, which means we go four to a boat. Most of the army will stay here, with only the ‘hard’ forces heading immediately down the river. Muwan divides us up into the boats. One ’passenger’, one guard, two rowers. Personally, I’d rather ride with Dick, but that is unprofessional and he wouldn't thank me for asking. Only Mayfair and Brooks prove an exception. Dick is right. They don’t separate for anything.

I get paired with Sergeant Pau’ah. A good man, even if not one of mine. He helps me into the boat, then shakes out his uniform cape as a blanket. “Try to get some rest, Ahaw Wayne.” 

“Shouldn’t I...” help to row, is my meaning, made clear by my half-wave at the soldiers with the paddles seated at either end of the boat.

“Rest now. “ he answers. “To’ak and Lur’pan will be safely camped back at the river while you have quite a hike ahead of you.

I lay back, noticing how the interested parrot takes wing even as the canoe pushes off from the shore.

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The parrot’s scream awakens me. Rough water ahead. Very rough. Rocks and foam stretching between sharp-cut banks that reminded me of the overprice ‘adventure’ vacations in Colorado that some woman in Personnel keeps trying to sell me as an ‘executive bonding’ retreat. Sergeant Pau’ah grabs my shoulder to steady me as I sit up and To’ak and Lur’pan start back paddling for all they are worth.

The third boat - the one in front of ours - has come too close to the rapids. Not enough to sink, but enough to upset.

*sploosh*

A low branch catches Brooks just as he is leaning forward to push off the rock.

“HAM!”

*splash*

Mayfair dives over the side. Their lead paddleman holds out a hand - looking like he wants to stop such a foolhardy act - but is forced to concentrate on the boat or go over himself. And if he is lost the boat will break against the white-sprayed rocks, and rescue will become all but impossible. Not that it will be easy even with the boat. The paddlers back wash, frantically trying to slow the boat, but the rapids have caught it. Any second now the hard current will catch the draft and force the vessel past its’ lost passengers.

I scan the water. Apparently still. No hungry wildlife. Good. For now. But? If anyone else has to go in? I have the gear. Even the toothy local fish will have a rough time gnawing through nomex.

“Row ahead!” I shout to the battling boatmen ahead of us. “We can get them!”

The paddlemen obey, moving their endangered boat away from the threatening boulders.

“Swing left,” I instruct my own lead paddleman. “ Keep to the shallow side of that rock. From there we can pick then up.”

In the few seconds it takes to get there Mayfair has latched onto Brooks, and between the pair they have managed to anchor themselves in a comparatively slow eddy. With both paddlemen backpaddleing frantically, and Sergeant Pau’ah laying flat on the offside rim to counterbalance the weight, I reach down to pull first Brooks, then Mayfair, into our boat. Fortunately it is large, so the added weight of two men is not a problem. Brooks is a tall man, but not heavy, and with Mayfair's help he falls easily over the edge. Mayfair is heavier, but less shocked, so one strong pull has him onboard as well. A bit of a rough landing. For all his long arms, his legs are too short for the leap, and he flops like a flounder into the well of the canoe. No matter. He’s in. This is not the Olympics and no one is checking for form. 

About three seconds of mutual gasping, checking that all lungs still work, and then Mayfair locks his partner into a kiss straight out of daytime drama. Not that I watch such things.

I look politely away.

Really. In front of strangers! I smile slightly at the thought. Alfred would be appalled! I’m rather more amused, although at their age you think they would have more decorum. But then, Oracle did mention that Brooks had rather come up in the world. Not far enough, obviously. And I suppose the stay in the jungle has diluted whatever stodginess Mayfair’s Boston Brahmin family managed to instill.

A muttered curse draws back my attention.

“Monk, you ape! Who told you you could swim!”

“Better then you, ya dressed-up duffer. I didn’t slam my brainless head into a rock!” Mayfair rolls to his side, allowing his partner more lung-space. ”Unless you think all that hot air is going to hold you up.”

I ignore them scanning the water. It seems we were just in time. The gators, attracted by the movement, have awoken and are making their slow but interested way towards the boat. At least - they are until the first one roars, twists, and vanishes in a sudden swirl of pink. 

Bad.

For it.

For us? Had things taken longer? Matters could have been very bad. Not that I’m hearing any sensible agreement from the volunteer seafood dinners.

“I was all right” Mayfair scoffs. “Those gators were a mile off. And I’m too tough for ‘em anyhow.”

Brooks points at the swirling red over beyond the rock. “What do you think those are... goldfish?”

I’m developing an unanticipated aversion to fish.

Memo. When home, have aquarium removed from office.

 

“Gentlemen?” I sound so much like Alfred I shock myself.

“We’re fine” Mayfair assures me. “Except for pretty-pants here and his spiffy shirt.”

“Just because I...”

“Gentlemen!” I drop a hand to Brook’s shoulder, stilling him. This is no time to rock the boat. Literally. “Please do sit up - carefully.” 

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Pau’ah signals another soldier, who in turn signals Muwan, with the result that we all beach temporarily at the next decent landing. An unexpected stop, but not unwelcome. It give the crew a chance to stretch their legs and relieve themselves in - given that we *are* deep in an untamed jungle - relative comfort.

Dick is already ashore. Jones and Dinah are in boats behind me, but should arrive momentarily. J’onn is... somewhere, I’m sure. One of those birds.

I help my dampened passengers out of the boat and onto a campstool arrangement of tarp and fresh branches the soldiers have set up. Brooks is recovered - I think - but Mayfair is still having some trouble catching his breath and keeps rubbing his shoulder. He must have hit it going into the water. I hope. This is no place for a heart attack. The nearest Western style doctor is back in the city, and I doubt that this jungle comes equipped with 911.

One of the soldiers takes our two swimmers damp clothes in exchange for a comparatively dry blanket. Fortunately, we have spare capes. It’s a warm day, but not that warm. Still, it’s warm enough that their clothes should dry out over the fire quickly enough to get us back on the river without any serious delay.

I give Mayfair a careful once-over. At least his color is good. I think. I grab a cup of the coca ‘tea’ one of the crew has brewed up and bring it over to the man.

“You should stay here,” I suggest. “Rest. We could leave some troops, or even call in the helicopter...”

“No, Wayne,” Mayfair cuts me off. “I gotta go. 

“I can...”

He shakes his head. “It’s gotta be me. Me an Ham. ‘Cause the Doc… can’t no more.” There is a pause while he takes a deep swallow of the steaming tea. “You’re a good kid Wayne. You do good. You got style. But you just can’t understand what this means to Doc - and what Doc means to us.”

Mayfair leans back, eyes focused on somewhere that isn’t here. Isn’t today. “It’s different now,” he says slowly. “The worlds a nicer place, mostly. But it didn’t get that way by folks sittin’ on their ass.” He looks at Brooks, then back into his empty cup. “Doc was there when we needed him. When a lot of folks needed him. Now we’ve got to be there for him.”

I take the cup and help him to his feet. “Even if it kills you?”

“I die, I die.” Mayfair shrugs, then hitches up his blanket. “We all are gonna die someday, Wayne. Dyin’s nothin’. That stupid parrot that keeps flappin’ around can *die*. The big thing is *how* you die - and how you live. The world is all one big variety show, and it’s what you do before the curtain drops that’s makes it worth the ticket.”

“And this is what makes it worthwhile to you. Getting this artifact for your friend.”

“Doc Savage makes the world work. Makes everything … everything.”

“And the dagger is what makes this all work for him?”

“He's gotta have it, Wayne. Ya need ta have the Tongue of the Jaguar ta do tha Sacrifice of the Jaguar God. Otherwise... “

“You don’t get to rule the City of Gold?”

“Not me, but... somethin’ like that.”

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY*


	31. A Change of Plan

Just eight of us now. I worry about Mayfair, but he won’t leave - and Brooks doesn’t leave him. Ever. Not even at the word of a God. Which makes me feel just a bit better. Like this crew hasn’t completely lost track of reality.

So. A crew of eight. Not my personal ideal - smaller is better. Faster. Especially if the smaller crew is Dick and myself. Plus maybe Dinah.

I made a good argument. Brooks even agreed. But Mayfair won’t back down, and Brooks does not leave him. Ever. At least his color is good again, and he’s keeping up with the march. The guy is old, but he’s tough. . Jones could go back. But he won’t, any more than the rest of them will. And if we needed the backup, Brooks at Tz’yak with the strike troops could actually prove useful.

I’ve been alternating my watch on them with keeping an eye on the terrain. 160 men against an army may be comic-book fantasy, but the sharp canyon we are skirting now flanks the only possible trail between Amhacutec Inca and the City of Gold. One entrance. One exit. Two cliffs. Killing ground. If Amhacutec gets past us... if he starts his march... then twenty men here could make a difference.

I consider mentioning this to Muwan, but the time I’m up to him he already has his sat-phone out. I just nod before falling back. Good to see that military education actually took.

Muwan has the lead, since he supposedly knows the turf. Dinah and Dick behind, supposedly guarding Jones. Mayfair and Brooks behind them. Sergeant Pau’ah and I have the rear. We could talk - this isn't a silent mission and the man has some Spanish - but except for the occasional warning of local vegetable nastys and the creative curses he occasionally aims at the too-present parrot, we don’t have much to say.

Pau’ah is a soldier. He’s here because his God sometimes asks for crazy things, and because he’s NCO enough to know that crazy or not those things are still going to have to get done. And that the sooner they do get done, the sooner he can get back home and away from the craziness. I can work with that. I have before. But it doesn’t give us much in common.

We could discuss the insanity of marching eight men against a city, but...? Pau’ah is just obeying his God. Even when that God marches him to a massacre. A God is a God, and men die for them. All gods. All men. And I? I am counting on a few more then eight. I brush my hair back from my eyes as Pau’ah curses again. The bloody parrot does keep flying a bit too low. And I have twice heard a wolf howl from the deep jungle. Which makes ten against a city. If it comes to a fight? I smile a bit at the thought. It’s going to be a massacre, all right. 

In the distance, a horse nickers.

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We’ve been four hours on the trail, which puts us two from Inca and company. I should be thinking about tactics. Running over the options in my head. I should. I will. But at the moment the jungle is dull enough - safe enough - that the only thing I can think about is my feet. They hurt. Even with the best hiking boots made - and mine are - I’ve still done more then eighty miles in the last thirty-six hours. Over broken terrain. I’m fit, yes, but the Bat is an *urban* legend. This isn’t part of my training routine.

Mental note: review and update training schedule.

I look at Dick and wonder how he does it. He still looks chipper. He’s chatting with Dinah, and listening to Jones, and generally reminding me of the Robin that could somehow fly over Gotham all night and quip at the bad guys and still lead the swim team the next day.

Such strength. But I had best conserve mine. Because tired or not, hungry or not, sore or not, I still have a mission in front of me. That has to come first.

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An hour and a half later when Dick stops. He has spotted an advance sentry. The man is seated up on the cliff side in clear view. He’s resting in his cape, comfortable, but alert enough and clearly watching the road. Lucky for us we aren’t *on* the road.

I nod at Dinah. She takes the man out with a drop. Flawless head shot. She rolls him, searches the body, and comes up with a military issue radio. Turned off. One point for our side. A real tactician would have instructed the man to leave the line open, and just possibly have had a warning. The hit was too fast for the man to speak, but an alert listener might have heard the scuffle and the thud. But Gomez and company are civilians at heart, and they followed the manual. Kept the switch on ‘standby’ to save the battery.

“Leave him?” Dick asks, breaking the silence.

I look at the man. I consider what I saw of Amhacutec Inca’s force. Not large. Gomez was putting his faith in weapons, not numbers. This man was probably the only sentry between here and Amhacutec’s city. Turn to Captain Muwan, holding up the radio. “They may have a check in system. They may not. It would be good to know.”

He understands me. “Sergeant Pau’ah speaks Quechua.”

I strip the man, cuff him, and roll him under some brush. The day is warm enough. He’ll live. 

Pau’ah puts on the uniform, tucking his own cape around the fallen sentry. Good man.

Normally spy duty is rather risky, but I gather the Geneva convention doesn't apply locally. Whatever uniform, a captured soldier is lunch. More or less literally. Muwan orders Pau’ah *not* to hold his ground. If he is challenged by a larger force, he should retreat. Try to make is back to the Tz’yak forces if he has the chance. Xek’or as a second choice. Back to the city third.

I hand him the radio, which he sets beside our own sat-phones. Wise. Even if something happens to him, we will probably hear the scuffle through the paired speakers.

I ask Mayfair to monitor. He knows all the languages, and it’s another excuse to keep him in the center of the march. He may be tough, but he’s still old.

At my shoulder, a parrot screeches.

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Silent running now. We’ve covered the last two miles of green and are tucked under a stone ridge just over the city proper. Actually well inside the old city, to judge by the bits of stonework sticking up from the foliage. Jones says these were the ritual baths. Which were not restored because... they apparently aren’t in fashion any more. My opinion of Amhacutec drops another notch.

There are four sentry posts. Double manned and clearly visible. Guards, not pickets. Easy enough to take, but we are evading instead. It isn’t the foot soldiers that matter.

Amhacutec Inca is still holding court over by the fire. Gomez is with him, and this time he has a pile of paper. Mostly maps. Modern stuff. Fancy hat number two is fussing around the cropped-off pyramid. Confirmation of my logic. The knife is still there. That’s good. The cooking fire is not. That’s bad. When an army closes the mess, they’re ready to march.

Still, that’s Savage’s problem. If it becomes a problem. I’m here to see that there isn’t a problem.

I slide over to Jones.

“Jones?” I nod at the display before us. Knowing the culture, he should see more then I do.

“Curicamarca.” He taps on a carving on the rock wall beside us.

It’s all scribbles to me. I could send it over to Oracle to translate, but? “That’s bad?”

“It means City of Gold.” 

City of Gold? I thought that was Savage’s place. Normally unimportant. It would not be the first time that two opposition governments gave the name of the capitol to two separate cities. But if Jones thinks it’s important enough to mention first?

So? I don’t say the word, but he hears me.

“On a bet? I’d guess this was the big city, back when the Inca were in power.”

Again - I gave him the unspoken so?

Jones turns his attention back to the city below. “From the carvings on that altar, Amhacutec Inca doesn’t need to take Savage’s city before deadline. He can run *his* sacrifice here, and march on Savage as a crowned king.” He points to a vine-wrapped trelliswork tucked between the main tents and the pyramid. “I’m betting that’s what that is for.”

Vine wrapped wickerwork walls, palm leaf roof, wooden floor. No furniture inside except a rough bench roped to one wall. Like a really fancy gazebo - or cage. It looks like it would hold a cat. but.. it’s empty. ”Can he be sure of catching a Jaguar? At this date?”

Now Jones gives *me* the look. “He doesn’t exactly need a cat, Wayne. That may be why they went to the villages. ‘Willing’ volunteers for the post of temporary royal.”

“And when they didn’t get anyone, they burned the village?”

“Or they burned the village after they grabbed whoever they wanted.” He turns his attention back to the camp. looking for... whatever. Something only he could catch. From his expression, not something good. “Children are traditional. Handsome young men are good. Or there’s always the classic RKO ‘virgin sacrifice’.”

“I thought you said?”

“Bad news, Wayne.” His hand reaches automatically for his whip belt. “ I said they didn't *eat* people. I didn’t say they didn’t kill them.”

Bad. I agree with that. Very bad. But...? “He still needs the knife?” I ask.

“More then ever.” Jones answers, not moving his eyes from the altar. “Amhacutec knows he’s pushing the legitimacy thing as it is, using this abandoned city. But he has an army, which counts. He has the bloodline. With the knife - he might pull it off. Without it? He’s just another front man for the ‘Spanish’.

“Good.”

I wave my crew over.

“Same basic drill as last time. From the north. Jones - you and Captain Muwan clear the sentry on that point. Brooks and Mayfair? You hold this point?” I hate to make it a question, but those two are not entirely my men. At least not in their minds. To make it easier, I add. “We need a clear escape route.” And, they understand without my saying, a local speaker will have the best chance of understanding of whatever orders are being given to stop us.

Mayfair nods and checks his rifle. Situation understood. Protection he won’t take. Orders he will.

I turn to my own people. “Dinah, you have Gomez.” She clicks up her earring and scans the surroundings for her launch point.

“I’ll take the prince, since he's low and guarded.” I continue. “Dick, you have feather head and the knife.” I reach into my backpack and pullout some high strength confusion bombs I had Savage’s lab whip up. A variation of the Scarecrow venom, although these simply leave the target confused and uncertain, rather then specifically fearful. Bigger and weaker then I could have managed in Gotham, but for a 1950’s lab? Savage has good people. 

I pass the glass and metal globes to Dinah and Dick. “We gas them first, to cut down the resistance.”

Getting three captives back over almost fifteen miles of jungle with an army on our back would be a... a long shot. But we won’t have to move them that far. The Ty’zak troops should be up on the cliffs by now. “There was a flat space just past Pau’ah’s sentry point.” I tell Mayfair and Brooks. “Before we start I’ll inform Savage. He’ll send both choppers.”

No need to say more. Once we make it there, we can catch the helicopter ride the rest of the way. After all, our stealth will *definitely* be over.

No response from the Savage crew. None needed. It’s the plan. I’m the man. Dinah starts to tighten her wrist gear. Dick shakes his head.

“Bruce.” Dick says. “It won’t work.”

“What!?” That is Dinah, shocked. Not enough to let her voice rise, but I can still hear the emotion.

Dick ignores her, speaking to me. “That Amhacutec guy is part of it, but I don’t think this is his idea.”

“Gomez.” I growl. 

“Will pull something again,” Dick finishes. It’s *his* people who did the burning, while Prince not-so-charming and feather-boy there were still snug at home.”

I nod. Amhacutec Inca is a potential tyrant. He is ambitious, power hungry, and morally bankrupt. Also totally willing to discard the actual needs of his people if favor of his own aggrandizement. So? That’s normal in many politicians. Without the modern weaponry? The random, massive destruction? Not my problem. Gomez is the root of the problem - and if not stopped will try again.

Dick points to the two main Incas. “We can grab the feather heads and haul them back to Savage, but Gomez is another matter. A man like Gomez can’t just vanish. And to charge him and make the charges stick?”

Dick is right. Gomez would be missed. Make that looked for. We have to bring him back to so-called civilization. Where he will walk faster than Lex Luthor on a parking ticket. Indian charges won’t hold up very long in a Santa Amoza City court, not against a billion dollars and a government full of cousins. But Dick wouldn't bring it up if he didn't also have a solution in mind.

I sit back. “What did you have in mind?”

Dick reaches for his backpack. “You know, Bruce?” He pulls off his armored shirt, showing the silver badge on a chain around his neck. “Sometimes it’s not how much kevlar you have. Sometimes it’s the colors you wear that count.”

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE*


	32. Traditional Villainous Rant

I stare as Dick stands there, naked except for his useless civilian clothes.

“You don’t...” Dinah sounds as stunned as I feel.

Then comprehension dawns. No wonder Dick is the tactician of his generation. The slaughter of a few dozen Indians might be covered over, but an assault on a fellow ‘gentleman’? Not so quick to evaporate. Especially when an outraged Wayne would have the money and lawyers to counter every move. True, assault won’t get Gomez the years that murder should, but even if he manages to get off with minimal time? It’s better then nothing. “You and I...” I begin.

Dick shakes his head. “Wayne would be treated with kid gloves.” He pulls out his silver shield and pins it carefully to the front of his shirt.

“Murder is a crime.” Dick tucks his gear neatly into the backpack. “Criminals get arrested.” His voice drops into the slow cadence of a mantra. “That what *police* are for.” He shakes his head, then give me his best ‘Robin’ grin. “It’s just a lot easier when the crime comes with a couple of witnesses. And maybe videotape,”

He hands the bag to a confused Mayfair. 

I get a filthy grin.

“And here I thought all my time with the vice squad was wasted.”

Dinah looks slightly shocked. “Entrapment, Dick?”

Dick chuckles, low and slightly nasty. “Not if the other guy asks first.”

She bites her lip, looking at me even as she speaks to Dick. “OK, Dick. So you and I...”

“No.” Dick shakes his head. “Jones.” The gray look comes over his face, the one that means he’s thinking about Bludhaven, and something that isn’t a job for Nightwing but damn well ought to be. “Because I want them for something capital.” 

And - I hear the unspoken coda - rape doesn't qualify. Barry might say it should, but if should counted then the murder of one river girl should be enough. But she’s was just a girl, and her people were just a tribe of nobodies, as the boatmen were just sailors of no importance, and in a ‘Spanish’ court they won’t count as much as money and industry and connections. But assault on a peace officer? Attempted murder of a peace officer? That’s ten years easy, even here. If we can even half tie Gomez to the drug trade, a strong prosecutor could make that life. If said prosecutor can match him to the weapons? He could hang.

I listen, but the howl is silent. The parrot screeches in protest. No mater. The plan is set.

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Jones has Dinah’s necklace, and I can hear him muttering as he and Dick make their was to the common path at the far side of the camp. “I still don’t like the sound of this.”

I focus my binoculars on Dick. He is barely visible as a rustle in the foliage, but close enough to Jones to give me a double echo through both transceivers. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I hear him quip.

“You mean, other then after they capture us, drug is into paralysis, drag us to the top of that pyramid, hack open our chests, and pull out our still beating hearts?” 

Dick shrugs. I see it as he passes between two trees. “Other than that.”

I’m picking up the archaeologists hat at the edge of the greenery. In a few steps the sentries should spot them. This is the risky part. If the guards fire first? Jones will be fine, but Dick is at least six seconds away. Too damn far for my tastes, but... I focus in on the nearest sentry, who is just beginning to track the movement.

There’s a big bird over his head. Hopefully that’s a good thing.

As the Inca soldier moves out, I hear Jones say. “Nothing I can think of, kid. But give me time.”

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Phase one over. Dick and Jones have been captured. There was a rough moment when the lead sentry was saying something I didn’t like the sound of. I don’t care if I don't speak the language, there are some sentiments that *can* be picked up just from sound. But soldiers are soldiers and after a few threats sentry-boy decided to hand the problem off to his sergeant, who displayed the universal tendency to pass problems over to his own boss, who in turn had the sense to shove the whole problem up the line. All the way up the line. Which is why Dick and Jones are currently being frog marched up to the pyramid. To the priest who is clearly second-in-command.

The good part is - I have an excellent view of the proceedings.

The bad part is - I still can’t go in. And in a few moments, Mr. Feathers-and-fur isn’t going to be any happier than his soldiers.

There is a certain amount of ceremony. I assume the Savage crowd knows what's being said, but I don’t bother to get a translation. The action is clear enough. Two intruders captures by the soldiers being so alert. Basic CYA.

One of the soldier types pushes Dick to his knees.

I make a note of the man’s face.

The feather-head priest in the cat-skin coat says something.

Jones says something.

Gomez comes up and whispers something to the priest. I don’t catch it, but it’s in Spanish. Apparently Gomez wasn’t big on Inca as a second language.

The priest says something Jones. Very likely a command.

Jones says something to the priest. Very likely an obscenity.

The soldier shoves both men forward, snarling something.

Dick ignores him, twisting to face the ‘Spanish’ at the other side.

“Mr. Gomez?” I hear Dick say. “Mr. Arturo Gomez? You are under arrest for the murder of one Ms. Huasa Chakpac.”

That must be the river girl’s name. I never learned it, but Dick did. He does things like that.

Gomez looks stunned. Not just at the name, which he wouldn’t know either, but more that Dick would even bring up something so ... irrelevant.

Dick continues, “You have the…”

The soldier cuts him off with a slap to the face. Same man as last time. We will definitely have to have a talk when this is over.

“Please.” Gomez steps forward. I can see his smirk from here. “Aren’t you a little out or your jurisdiction?”

I can’t see Dick’s face, but his back straightens. “Hot pursuit, Mr. Gomez.”

Gomez makes a gesture. Dick gets another slap. I’d put Gomez on the chat list too, but he’s already there.

“Where is Wayne?” Gomez asks.

“Wouldn’t you think he’d be back in Santa Amoza by now?” Dick sounds snide enough to be channeling Jason. “ Your pirates didn’t leave much of the boat.”

“Not mine.” Gomez preens a little, obviously delighted to be thought even more of a villain then he actually is. “ But they did do me a service if they sent Wayne back to Santa Amoza. I would *so* hate to lose his lumber contract.” Gomez considers that, as if counting the money he thinks he will get. “ Although I suppose that won’t much matter - once I...” he catches himself, and I watch him sketch a slight bow toward the fancy bench in front of the pyramid. “Once Amhacutec Inca has his rightful throne.”

I hear Dick's voice get slower. Careful. “So for the record you confess you *do* plan to…”

Gomez cuts him off. Not with a slap this time, just a laugh. “Sacrifice the Jaguar God and Capture the City of Gold? Naturally. I mean, what else is there in this...” Gomez falls silent. 

The fuss has attracted Amhacutec’s attention, and while he’s too conscious of looking ‘royal’ to rush, he’s still made his way over. “Que es esto?”

Spanish. Apparently Amhacutec and his priest take a bit more multi-lingual approach. Good. Not that the question wasn’t obvious. And not that I couldn't get a simultaneous translation. Still, I prefer my own ears.

“Arrepentido, su Majesty.” Gomez speaks up, pouring on the oil. “ Usted recuerda al Americano loco que dije usted acercade? Esto es su guardia del cuerpo. Y guia del viaje.”

Gomez is trying to resurrect the Inca Empire, and I’m the crazy one? Not even Orin would vote for that! But at least he seems to have swallowed Dick’s cover story. And Jones’, of course.

Gomez gives Amhacutec another bow, just for good measure, before he continues. “Y Aparentemente ellos tienen...”

“Se ofrecio a unirnos?” the priest finishes for him.

Gomez laughs, clearly amused by the double meaning of ‘volunteer’. I don’t laugh, but I do smile a bit. They are taking the bait. Just as Dick said.

Amhacutec gives Dick an accessing look. “Hay esto. Que usted piensa?”

There is another babble of words between the Inca prince and his second. Several gestures, most of them towards the altar or back at the waiting cage. Normally I wouldn't take it for a good sign, but under the circumstances?

After a minute, Amhacutec barks out an order, then leaves.

Gomez smiles at Dick. It’s not a pleasant smile. “It turns out, Mr. Grayson, that we are in need of a sacrifice to bless our march.” Then he turns to Jones. “ Even two sacrifices. And while you are not quite the treat to the eyes that our young friend is, Dr. Jones, I am sure the Gods will find you much more worthy then those sorry captives we managed to drag up from the river villages.”

Jones shrugs. “I never argue religion with a priest. Or a God.”

Gomez laughs as the guards pull the two men to their feet. “Think of it this way, Dr. Jones. You will have a perspective on the ritual that is rarely granted to Europeans. What a pity you will not be able to publish.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

The guards get in a few more blows as they drag Dick and Jones over to the wicker work cage and toss them in. This hurts like hell to watch - but sometimes – and here I quote Dick - to get the bust you have to stomach the crime. Not a theory I universally agree with - but in this case I see the logic.

The sentry took the pistols off both men before taking them to the pyramid. I have no idea where those are now. I don’t see them on the guards, so it’s probably not important. Jones can buy another, and as for Dick? It won’t be the first Police Issue he’s ‘lost’ doing ‘overtime’. Redhorn can just send me the bill.

Fortunately the cage is set in the open, so I still have visual. Not that our equipment can’t handle stone, but I am more comfortable with Dick where I can get to him quickly. And Jones, of course. Not that he’s in any particular danger.

More fortunately, the guards didn’t strip the pair. More proof that we are dealing with civilians. Although, I grant reluctantly, remarkably well disciplined civilians. I had expected them to steal Dinah’s necklace, but Jones still has it. Dick's transceiver is also on. Good. I have sent Dinah to higher ground with orders to watch the far side of the camp. If it gets truly risky, we will go in.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Eighteen minutes later - by Oracle - when the guards come back. This time They have a third man. Native. Clearly a prisoner. Not in the best shape, but not so injured that we need to change the plan. He can be left there until the secondary action - probably.

I scan the leaf canopy. I don’t know quite which bird is J’onn, but I assume he is still in contact with Oracle. He can shift form and evacuate one non -combatant if necessary. Only if necessary. If there’s going to be court testimony, then the JLA is the *last* group Bruce Wayne wants involved.

That can wait for later. Dick is talking to the man.

“Es lastimado usted?” I hear Dick say as he bends over the man, blocking my view. I assume if Dick has to ask if someone is hurt, the answer is no.

There is a smattering of thumps and mutters. I think Dick is helping him over to the far corner, where is there is a bench of sorts. Not much, but the brace pole where the walls intersect will give the man something stable to lean against. 

When the audio comes back he is talking to Dick. “Grayson. Senior Dick Grayson. Recuuerdo. Usted me dio un paseo.”

Interesting bit of political insight there. He remembers Dick and presumedly Jones from last Wednesday, and doesn’t seem particularly shocked to find them both in this make-shift hoosegow. Which would indicate that the ‘student’ problem is a lot worse then the government is letting on. Not that the gun runners and drug dealers I would have worried about last week are anything compared to Gomez, but? I’ll have a word with Kal about getting a bit more help down here.

“Ramon Quesada. El hombre con las ollas.” Dick, of course, recognizes him at once. “Como obtuvo usted aqui?”

Now how he got here *is* an interesting question. If I recall his chat with Dick correctly, the man is an Aztec - and something of a loyalist. I wouldn't expect him to join with an Inca coup.

“Visitaria los parientes in Yankuikan,” he tells Dick. “Pero pare a hacer algun negocio Porto Chakpac apenas asado y....” I see him wave vaguely at the surrounding soldiers. “ellos me asieron.”

That would fit. Relatives in Teplitzin’s city would explain the man’s... unusual politics, and going by Jones kidnapping is par for the course around here.

Jones has been leaving the chat to Dick, but now his mike goes active. “I assume Quesada here is our ‘court’,” I hear him tell Dick.

“Court?”

“Sure.” Jones pulls Dick aside. Not that they can get very far in that little cage. And I seriously doubt that Quesada speaks any English. He wouldn’t have had any reason to conceal it earlier. But still - Jones is apparently taking things seriously. “All good royals get a attendants.” I hear him explain. “Like I said - these guys need to off someone ‘important’ to get on Wiracocha’s good side. Technically a royal. But since they personally aren't exactly eager to move upstairs?” I catch his sudden glance at the alter, where the fur clad priest is doing something with the fires. I assume Jones knows what it means, and from his expression it’s not particularly pleasant bit of knowledge. “They promote some prisoner or disposable peasant, and let then take the ax. Or in this case dagger.” He looks at the altar again, then back at Dick. “Think of it as being ‘King for a Day’.”

“TV show?” I see Dick shake his head. “Sorry. Before my time.”

“You aren't missing much.” Jones has his back to me, but I don’t need to see his face. I can hear the smirk. “Anyway. You play Amhacutec. I fill in for the priest guy.” He shoots a thumb back at the busy pyramid. “And number three here covers for Gomez.”

“I’d like that show better with the original cast.” Dick turns his attention to the altar. “How long do you think we have?”

That’s the killer question. Literally. I catch myself holding my breath as I wait for his answer, not certain what answer I even want. I don't like the thought of Dick in that cage, but still? Compared to certain *other* parts of the local architecture? It’s one of the better choices.

I can see Jones thinking, Checking out the ritual activity, then squinting up at the small bit of sky that is viable through the general foliage. “Not long. Savage would wait until Friday. Gomez needs to take the city before then, or his Inca allies will lose the religious advantage. He’ll need all Thursday to move the army, and that’s without leaving much time for the fight itself.”

Nothing there I don’t know - but it’s still hard to hear. Time is the one enemy I can’t defeat, and the one thing I can’t call upstairs to get more of.

“Wednesday, then?” Dick asks. “Tomorrow?”

“If Amhacutec here wants to march as a demigod?” The two mikes give the archaeologist’s voice a rather ominous echo. “I’d say tomorrow morning - perhaps even tonight.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

Jones - apparently - is correct. It’s only about an hour later when Gomez collects what looks like a handful of oversized dinner rolls of of the pyramid fires and drops them into the prisoners cage. Interesting advantage to wicker. Or disadvantage, if you chose. No need to open the door and risk the traditional ‘bash the guard with the dinner tray’ maneuver. Not that Dick had any such plan in mind, but still.

Jones takes a sniff at one. i can hear it over his necklace transmitter. “Sancu. Sacred bread. Made with corn, water, and just a bit of human blood. About half baked. Tastes like shit.”

He passes on to Quesada, who devours it. Either the man is considerably less picky, or Gomez has not been putting much effort into feeding his prisoners. From Dick’s expression, I’d guess the later. Or both.

“Figures.” Dick picks up one of the loafs with two fingers - about the way he would collect some particularly contaminating bit of evidence, back in Bludhaven. “Political dinner circuit. Bruce is always complaining about the rubber chicken.” He tosses his own loaf into the corner. He may be missing dinner, his expression says, but after that list of ingredients?

“Hey” My earpiece crackles as Jones shouts at Gomez. “What happened to the feast? The dancing girls?”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Jones.” Gomez’s voice is almost a purr. “You wont be hungry for long.” He slides in a plain pottery jug. “Here. Pure water.” After a pause - and some fairly blatant grimaces on Jones’ part - Gomez adds. “Boiled, I assure you. We wouldn't want you to get ill.”

Jones spins the jug slowly. Even from here I recognize the expression. It usually precedes the words ‘Really, Mr. Gomez, I must rather question the authenticity....” Going by the mike, he has the voice down too. “I thought this was supposed to be gold and jade?”

Gomez laughs. “The local Inca now have very forgiving Gods. And sadly, rather economical ones. At least, until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jones somehow manages to sound both interested and indifferent. Good trick.

“Tomorrow Amhacutec’s army will capture the City of Gold. And when the old Jaguar God is dead? The combined armies will march on Yankuikan, then up the river. Within a month they will have reclaimed Tawantinsuya. Within the year? Hidalgo, Santa Amoza, Even Santa Prisca. The Land of Four Directions will again rule the continent!”

“Sounds great. Amhacutec’s a lucky stiff.” Jones’ voice is less then convinced. “But what’s in it for you?”

Gomez preens. I can see it from here. Without field glasses. “*I* will rule Amhacutec!”

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO*


	33. The Last Walk

Cold night. I tell the others to pull back a few hundred yards so they can get some sleep. I need them fresh before morning. Brooks snuggles up with Mayfair. Not affectionately, necessarily - although in their case I will assume that is also involved. It’s just the logical way to stay warm. Muwan looks at the rest of us, uncomfortable, then rolls up in his blanket instead. I don't know if the kid is still slightly modest, or just hesitant to impose. 

Dinah takes over main watch at one, and again at three, so I can grab some combat naps. Sufficient, since I did get a decent three hours last night. 

There has been activity around the pyramid all night. Good indication that Jones was right. The rest of the camp is dark. No parties, no gossip. Even better indication that I was. The soldiers are resting seriously because they expect to march.

No one has gone near the cage with Dick and company. Not even to give them blankets. Fortunately, the night is warm enough that it shouldn't be actually injurious - but I’ll still put it on my retribution list. Hmmmm. Santa Amoza prisons are decent - as South America goes - but no system is entirely uncorruptable. And what Gomez can bribe to get? Wayne can afford to take away. Lets see how *he* enjoys a few nights with no mattress. But... I remind myself... we have to convict the bastard first.

False dawn. The pyramid action gets louder and a lot more purposeful. There has been singing off and on all night, but those were generally single voices. Now it sounds like Franciscan night at Gotham Cathedral. I call Dinah, and tell her to wake Muwan, Mayfair, and Brooks. It’s been a short night for those not trained to it, and I want to give them time to come fully alert. Ramon Quesada has been whimpering - or maybe praying - on and off all night. Not loud enough to disrupt sleep, so I assume my two are rested and ready to go.

“B..ruce?” Dinah is a low voice in my earphone. “Amhacutec is leaving his tent. He’s got Gomez with him, and a bunch of ... dressed up soldiers. Lots of feathers and fringe, and I don't see any guns on them. Just those funky wooden swords”

A good sign - twice over. It means that this likely is party time, and it also means they will be a lot safer to take out. Not that the swords can be discounted totally. The onyx chips on the edges are molecule sharp. In the hands of an expert, lethal even to a well armored opponent. The active word there is - in the hands of an expert. I’m betting Amhacutec doesn't have anyone who qualifies.

Dinah clicks me again. “I’ve got another group on the north side approaching the pyramid. I think they could be headed for the cage. Should I wake Indy?”

“Indy?” Interesting choice.

“I’m already up, Bruce.” Dick's voice, low and confident.

Roger. Dinah may have known that. Even so...

A tapping sound, a few strange bits I’ll interpret as scratches, and then “Jones here.”

“It’s starting, Indy.” Dinah - leaping to conclusions.

Dinah is competent, but she has the weakness of watching the wrong man. Should I? No. I can’t justify telling her about Jones. Not yet. It’s his secret, not mine, and in my circle gossip is slightly less forgivable then homicide. Just ask Tim. So unless either the combat situation or their relationship becomes truly serious? 

“Give me a play-by-play, Doll.” Indy asks Dinah. “It’s a little dark from where I am.”

“Well.” Her tone hesitates, and which much mean she’s rechecking the grounds. Good. Her position covers the area’s that are blocked to me, so I need her to be exact. “There’s Amhacutec, standing in front of his tent. He’s all dressed up. Looks like a carpet roll with legs.”

True enough. The man is still in shadow, but the torches being held by his escort allow me to pick out every detail. In acid-trip color. I wonder that he-who-would-be-King can move, given the layers of capes and necklaces he's carrying. And that headdress must be painful to balance. Feathers don't weigh that much, counted one by one, but still? I’ve seen lower hats on showgirls in Vegas. It should make him easier to capture.

“Gomez is just behind him.” Dinah continues. “He looks a bit more comfy, but not by much.”

“What does his hat look like?”

I’ll trust that is a tactical question. This is not time for Jones to get scholastic on me.

“Round thing - with sort of a curvy part sticking forward. And maybe half a feather duster on top.”

“A noble - not a priest. He’ll stay with the prince. They should stop at the platform just below the top altar level.”

Tactical. Good. One point for Jones. I send a note via Oracle. Transfer more support to Dinah, since she will have two targets.

“The procession is moving now.”

Dinah has Amhacutec covered, so I turn my attention to the Jaguar priest. Not as many torches there, but with night-vision binoculars it doesn't matter. Even the false dawn is bright enough to let me pick up colors. Not that the priest has too many. He is also decked out, but his outfit has given up the feathers for bone and fur. The spotted furs are presumably Jaguar. The bones? Those I won’t think about. After the first murder, all the rest are free.

“They should stop at the plaza.” Indy is telling Dinah. “The soldiers will stay down at the foot of the pyramid. Only Amhacutec and Gomez will go up.”

“Thanks, Indy.” Dinah says as the row of torches comes to halt in a shaky line. “You are right on.”

“Confirmed.” I add. “I have them stopped about fifteen feet from the bottom step. The other party is coming up fast from the east.”

“ In sight now. Oh - oh!”. I can hear Dinah shift into launch position. “There is a big guy in front of Amhacutec now holding a spear.”

Part of the ritual.” Jones sounds confident. I gather that everything is - from his point of view - reassuringly on track. “Check the outskirts. There should be four more of those.”

“Mr. Wayne? I have one spearman.” Muwan enters the conversation, also letting us know he has reached his point. “North east side - just behind where the kitchen was.

Men with spears? I lower my binoculars to the outskirts of the camp. Yes. “Check.” I acknowledge. “Also a soldier with a spear below me at southwest.” Not much of a spear. Short. Narrow shaft. Big bundles of feathers and beads tied under the head disrupting the balance. No other arms. No cape either. Just a skimpy skirt. The jungle isn’t that warm. At least not this early in the morning. The sun will warm things quickly - but not for another fifteen minutes. Right now that stone pavement has to feel like ice in through those thin sandals. I can see the man rubbing his arms from here. Good. A cold opponent is a slow opponent.

“OK.” Jones comes back. “ In a minute they are going to run into the camp, then back out. You don’t need to stop them. It’s just part of the show.”

“If they reach Pau’ah.? I question.

“They won’t go that far,” Jones reassures me. “They’re just going to wave the spears around and scare away evil. But? If there’s a working bath up there... don't be near it. The ritual calls for them to wash off the evil influences.”

And no sane person would take a dip in the river. Understood. I move a bit deeper into the foliage. Being seen now would be lethal to more then the plan. Even as I do so, my spear- carrier starts sprinting for the plaza. Good thing we have Jones. Otherwise it would look like someone had been discovered. As it is? All four men play clank-the-spear before jogging off.

The main spearman collects the priest and a few assistants and heads off for the prisoners.

“Indy?” Dinah sounds a bit nervous. “They’re headed your way.”

“Show time.” Indy leans back against the woven wall, stretching out his legs in a caricature of comfort.

No nerves there. My respect for Jones grows. Not that he’s in any mortal danger, but most civilian’s actual fear is pain, not really death. I assume that pain is still a part of his universe.

“Fifteen seconds”, I warn. “Going into silence.”

“Understood.” Dick drops to the floor and curls up as if he was still asleep.

Now the only noise is the slap of sandals on stone and the plainchant rumble of voices singing in Quechua. Plus, of course, the whimpers from Quesada. I don't know if he’s begging or praying - and it doesn't matter. No one is paying attention either way. Dick wanted to reassure the man, but I forbade it. There is always the chance that he is a plant rather then a prisoner. Not that these folk look that sophisticated, but... that’s a very old ruse. Better safe. He will react more convincingly if he believes.

They pass over something in a jug. Quesada drinks it. Dick and Jones don't. The chief priest looks like he wants to argue the point, but after a glance at the brightening sky gives it up. More proof they are running short of time. He just hits them all with a faceful of corn flour and calls it a day.

Jones brushes it off his shoulder. “Que? Ninguna ropa del Partido?”

One of the guards strikes Jones across the mouth. He looks like he’s like to make a job of it, but after a glare from the priest restricts himself to jerking the doctor into line - with only slightly excessive force.

“Que classe du un bastardo barato es usted?” Jones snarls at the priest. “Cuando yo lego a Ukhu, yo’ll dice Aska Wiracocha para secar sus pelotas para emparejar su cara!”

Spanish - so I assume Jones is taunting the man to impress Quesada. Maybe to pick up the Aztec man’s spirits. Not that it seems to be helping. Much.

No reply from the priest. I know he speaks Spanish - but he’s not driven like Gomez. Not a world- conqueror, just a man with a job. The truly dangerous type. Probably doesn't even consider himself evil. He just chops people up and goes home to the wife and kids. That might make him slightly more dangerous. ‘Good’ men don't compromise. Too often they don’t surrender. I have enough blood on my hands.

One of the soldiers cuts off Jones’ shirt. Memo: Watch for concealed daggers. Those the troops apparently *do* know how to use, and they are *sharp*! Not that any of the nicks look dangerous, and Jones will heal fast enough. One of the guards reaches for Dinah’s gold necklace only to get his hand slapped. The soldier with the spear snaps something. I don’t know the language but that sounded suspiciously like ‘later’.

As they push him forward, Jones mutters “Lousy way to treat a god.”

Dick takes the hint and unpeels his shirt voluntarily, tucking his badge onto his waistband. He goes out to stand behind Jones, but get pulled up front. A lot more gently and with something that looked suspiciously like a grope. Again one of the guards gets his hand slapped - and this time I’d guess the command as ‘forget it’. Soldier-boy looks a lot less happy. I guess what he has in mind wouldn't work post-mortem. Soldier-boy also goes on my workout list.

Quesada drops his cape to the floor and shuffles over to stand behind Jones. Same shuffle I usually see at a line-up. Clearly he understands the routine. He’s muttering non-stop now - Spanish prayers and something in his own language which I assume is ditto. He looks on the edge of hyperventilation. I consider that, then put it aside. Nothing I can do. If he faints at this point, all the better. A limp body is hard to move. They might leave him behind - out of danger and out of our way.

Several other soldiers move to both sides. I gather that is supposed to be an honor guard, but it looks more like the last walk at Bellereve. Not unique for Dick. I suspect even the voluntary volunteers would be rethinking their career choice at this point. Not that they would stop Dick if he wanted to break out. They are standing too close, and spears are a poor choice of weapon for prisoner control. Still? For your average drugged civilian it would more than suffice.

And that drink in the jug was a drug. Not just alcohol. Quesada is slipping fast from hyper to half-comatose. Not necessarily good. Not once he gets to the pyramid. If he can’t walk away from there, we will have to leave him. Without anyone left to finish the sacrifice he should survive until the cleanup crew gets here... probably... but I hate risking the innocent.

Not a long march. They meet up with the four other spearmen who have - as Jones predicted - jogged back to the base of the pyramid. According to Oracle this is where the future divinity is supposed to get a last kiss from the local virgins. No women here - so they skip that part. Although a few of the soldiers look like they might step in to cover that duty. 

*grrrr*

I focus back on the action. Dick looks cold. Jones looks interested. Quesada looks stoned.

Another offering of bread - sancu as Jones calls it - dipped in fresh blood. This time it's not voluntary. Want to be a god? One has to eat like one. According to Littlejohn, who has a reasonable line on those job requirements. The Gotham Brahmin inside me rather hopes that Madam Savage’s chef du cuisine has a more… cordon blu… menu varient. Blood pudding, perhaps.

At Jones’ nod, Dick takes a bite. From his expression? It’s everything he suspected - and worse. And this from he kid who *devoured * Belly Busters? I make a note to tease him about it later. I know he would like to spit it out - just to singe priesties fur. Good idea - bad time. Which Dick knows. He swallows. Maybe I won’t tease him after all. At least - not too badly.

The lead spearman hustles them to the foot of the narrow steps to the first platform, where they meet up with Amhacutec and Gomez. The priest starts singing something, only to be cut off by Gomez. That earns the prince a nasty look. Confirmed: the Jaguar priest is a traditionalist. His gods are not happily mocked. But Amhacutec’s gods are a bit more submissive, and today the prince is working against a deadline.

Amhacutec whispers something, which gets brings a growl from Mayfair and gets the high priest smiling again. Oracle beeps in with my first translation. “Amhacutec promised him he could sacrifice the princess. Mona Savage?” I second that growl. Having met the lady I do understand the urge... but civilized people don't give in to those urges.

Two of the spearmen tie Jones and Quesada to the two side pillars, then take their places at either side of the seated prince. Jones quips something again. Not very loud. I miss it in the background noise. Must be the local language, as Amhacutec gets it and Gomez doesn't. One of the spearmen looks like he’d like to try another slap - but apparently that just isn't done. He gives Jones a growl, which I interpret as ‘you’ll get yours’ and leans back to watch the show.

Not as good as I had hoped. Jones had suggested that the ‘court’ might be left alone up there. Oracle had confirmed that. Maybe her research was off - or maybe the prince is just appropriately paranoid. I sure wouldn’t trust his allies. No matter. This arrangement leaves Amhacutec and Gomez with only two guards - and those are the lightly armed spearmen. Gomez shouldn't know how to fight. Amhacutec might, but he’s too hampered to be effective. The steps are too narrow for swift support to arrive from below - even if I didn’t have plans in place to disrupt the soldiers. The situation is still well within planned parameters.

I watch narrow-eyes as the chief spear-carrier and two others nudge Dick up the remaining flight of stairs at spear point. With the Jaguar priest, that will make four at the main altar - and all at least passably armed. But? I will have Dick.

Another message through Oracle. Concentrate defense on the bottom on the structure - and on maintaining our escape route. We will be coming out fast.

I hear the acknowledgement at the back of my mind as I watch them tie Dick to the altar. He jerks. I wince. Involuntary. That stone has to be cold - and Dick’s back is still sensitive. Likely the small fires that burned off and on all night were just enough to leave hot ashes without actually warming the stone.

I should have thought of that. Should have sent for the silicone spray before I let Dick go down. As it is?

I watch as the Jaguar Priest kneels behind the altar. When he comes up, he has a long handled knife held in both hands. Carved jade, gold beadwork fringe, curved onyx blade. No question what we are looking at. This is the Tongue of the Jaguar.

I hear a gasp. Muwan. Something muttered in K’iche’. From the accent, Brooks. An obscenity in English from Jones. They know what they are seeing. So do I.

OK. Jumpline in one hand - knife in the other. 

“Ready, people?” I hear the various sounds of acknowledgement. “On my word.”

The chanting gets louder. Much louder.

The priest raises the blade.

I am four seconds from Dick. A lot can happen in four seconds.

I tug the line.

“Now!”

 

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE*


	34. Fight Scene

I launch the gas as I leap. The balls hit the stone. Invisable in the dark. Odorless. Never known. It will still swing the odds.

Dinah follows suit, covering the other side. 

We leave the south open. I want them to run.

A gasp. The soldiers see us coming. Not clearly, but a black silhouette against the brightening sky. Even without the cape, the effect is... awesome.

A shout. Pounding feet. Some retreating. More advancing. A clipped order - probably to catch or kill the intruders.

Wings over my head.

Slides. Falls. Random screams. 

I risk a glimpse at the stairs. A *very* large spotted cat is now filling the bottom ten feet. And snarling. No claws visible, but the snarl is enough to give the soldiers serious religion. They are running backwards even faster then they ran up. Tawantinsuya be damned. None of those guys are going to interfere with Divine Will. Especially not when said will is expressed via Divine Claws.

Eyes up. Twist for landing.

Blue smoke and darkness obscure the figures, but the handle of the Jaguars Tongue is still bright. Use it to target.

Dinah hits half a second before I do. Lower arc.

I get one quick glimpse of her slashing the pillar behind Jones before I’m into my own fight.

Hit the top platform rolling. Lose momentum. I’m flying too fast to safely hit the first spearman, but a near miss brushes him back. Sets him off balance.

Spin over the altar - low enough to make dagger-man duck - and land on the second spearman. Soft hit, but it buys time. The knife in my palm is ready. Two slashes and Dick’s legs are free. 

“OK chum?”

“Thanks for dropping in.” 

Dick swings his legs up, rolling on his shoulders and taking care of the other guard. Nice head kick. Not only sets the man down, but sends his spear sliding over the platform edge. 

I back-kick to disarm the second.

Dick uses a scissor kick to brush back the Jaguar Priest.

I use the motion to reach under to Dick's wrist bindings. Slower work. I don’t want to cut Dick. But I get it done - just in time to feel the soldier I hit jump on my back. Tough bastard.

Dick catches him with a round kick and the fight is on.

The head priest drops the dagger and pulls a sword. Good choice, The Jaguar’s Tongue is a hacking blade. Not much good on defense. A light broadsword can double the reach of a pro. Lethal thing, in these tight quarters. Fortunately, cat-man isn’t a pro. Two hits and he’s down and disarmed. I twist his arms back in a few coils of batrope and drop down to the lower platform.

Indy has taken Dinah’s knife, and is freeing Quesada. The man looks shaken, but standing. Jones will cope.

Dinah is sparing with the prince. She’s better, but he has the longer reach. Not to mention another of those swords. She has... most of a spear. Amhacutec is - not brilliant, but competent. Fighting defense and keeping his back to the wall. Playing for time. Hoping for relief from below. Good tactic. If relief was coming.

I risk a glance at the stairs. Still more screams. The ‘Jaguar’ has bloody claws. Someone has gotten brave.

Damn.

One of the spearmen is recovering from the first hit. He comes to assist his ruler.

I take him out. We’re in a hurry.

Indy handles the other. Good. We won’t have long before....

*ping* *ping*

That. Damn. The fire is still random, but someone down there is getting their balls back.

Flip. Spin. Spot. A guy in a shirt. Gomez must have brought his own crew. Reasonable. He wouldn’t trust his allies any more than they would trust him.

*ping* 

Way off - but a high-powered rifle, going by sound. Probably scoped. When the daylight hits this spot?

“UP!” I shout at Jones.

He scrambles for the stairs , pushing Quesada in front of him. 

*pock* *pock* *pock* *pock*

Cover fire. High. Muwan can’t be seeing the target, but the sound alone should duck a few heads. Good.

Gomez runs behind them. Running to escape or just running in fear? Whatever. I let him go. If he was headed down? I’d have to do something to stop that. I didn’t let Dick go though all this just to give Gomez a time-out. But he’s ending exactly where I want him, so?

*ping*

Closer.

*pock* *pock* *pock* *pock*

“Ten seconds!” I shout.

I turn and help Dinah with the prince. She’s got his attention - so one side-head punch takes him down. She ties him. I hoist him to my shoulder, and motion for the Bird to cover my back. 

*ping* *ping*

*pock* *pock* *pock* *pock*

Muwan is moving closer.

Amhacutec tries to kick me in the spine. Almost sends me off the narrow steps. Fat bastard. Suit absorbs the impact, but it’s the thought that counts.

*pinggggg*

That one is close enough to make me drop. I hit the Oracle link. “Get us OUT!”

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

The soldiers below hear that sound. I don't know how many recognize it and how many are just scared. Doesn’t matter - they break.

*growwwwllllll*

And run.

The Gods have been captured by demons in black and this is a bad place to be.

*growwwwllllll* *guuurrrrrowwwwllllll* 

J’onn - still snarling and hissing - pounces after the fleeing troops. That brings a slight smile. Those men will think twice before enlisting in another holy war.

I dump Amhacutec on the altar beside his second and move back. No room to land the chopper, so the plan is to transfer in flight. Tricky. Especially with prisoners. But I *do* trust Savage to have a good pilot.

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

Moving to the far edge, I signal the chopper to come in.

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

The pilot makes a pass, checking for us and for the landing surface. There is a bit of dawn wind starting - so he signals that he wants to land on the plaza.

Quick check:

Plaza? Empty.

Walls? Empty. Even Gomez’s rifleman has given up.

I give permission to move the transfer down.

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

Local check.

No soldiers on the pyramid - at least none moving. Good. We can leave them untied and let them ‘escape’ later. No reason to punish the grunt troops more then circumstances will naturally.

Amhacutec has quit thrashing. Good.

Dick - looking slightly winded but unhurt. Better.

Indy going over to help Dinah, leaving Quesada and Gomez with.....

Shit!

Quesada grabs the dagger. 

The Jaguar Priest lunges for Quesada, and lands on the floor. Dick lands on him.

Dinah tackles Amhacutec, just to be safe.

What tha... is everyone here a religious fanatic? 

Quesada runs for the stairs.

Gomez jumps for him. Knocks him under my batline and.... grabs the knife.

Quesada kicks Gomez in the... stomach. Hard. But not hard enough. Gomez keeps the knife.

I roll, trying kick the blade as I tackle Quesada.

Indy leaps for Gomez.

Gomez rolls. 

The platform edge!

Gomez goes over. It's a sharp slide - but not a drop.

I fire a line, but Gomez is on his feet and running for the jungle. I’d line out, but the chopper is in the way. I signal Dick to take over the transfer and rappel behind the fugitive. Damn. Gomez isn’t that fast, but these are narrow passages. He ducks through, trying to lose me in the maze of broken stone. I must keep him in sight. He knows this place. I don’t. He has the knife. I want it.

He leaps a wall, making a break for the jungle. Not the path with Mayfair and Brooks. Damn. I could call for cross fire, but at this distance it would have to be lethal to be effective.

I launch a line. Air travel will be faster, and the line of sight will be clearer.

Too far for a batarang! He reaches the path just past the sentry post. If I don't catch Gomez soon he will...

*thud*

Fall down at my feet?

 

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR*


	35. The Last Huzzah

A purple clad figure steps from the brush. “I believe this is yours?”

He is holding the Tongue of the Jaguar.

There is a weakness in open-faced costumes like his. His doesn't cover his smirk. One of the virtues of the cowl. Not that I would ever be so unprofessional.

I take it.

Dick would say thank you. I’m not Dick. I manage a nod. “Still here?”

He gives me the crossed-arm *look*. Not bad. Not me, but ... not bad. “Still pirates.”

Nice save. As if a sudden interest in Gomez was his only reason for staying with the case. I know his type. There was no way Walker was going to go off and leave these people to Gomez and his murderous goons. 

I look down at Gomez. He’s breathing. Faintly. Judging from the skull-shaped purple bruise now adoring his cheek, I’m not surprised. Or perhaps I am surprised - that he still has his jaw. Apparently unbroken. Other than that? I suppress a smile. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

Walker blinks. “Uh? Well, I do. The skulls tell me.” 

“Bruce? Ready to go?”

Dick comes jogging up, along with a new man I haven't met yet. Older Caucasian male in good health. Make that acceptable health. The rangy thinness doesn’t mislead me - there are solid muscles over those not-quite- visible bones - but his complexion? I’ve seen rosier corpses. This man serious needs either a beach vacation or some time with a tanning bed. From the jacket and ear set, the pilot of the helicopter. From attitude and location?

“Thomas J. Roberts, I assume?”

“Mr. Wayne.” He holds out his hand. East coast politise all around - even standing in this temple to doom. “Your man... er…” He starts again, with a pause that almost passes for a coma. “Mr. Grayson tells me that...”

I hold up the knife.

“Is that...?” Roberts shivers.

I appreciate the sentiment. The Jaguar’s Tongue is a nasty looking thing - even without the memory of death and destruction that now surrounds it.

I hand it over. Gladly. “See it doesn’t get... lost... again?”

He swallows. Hard. “If you can wait? I’ll get it to Hunahpu at once.”

“Theo?” Dick translates the name. I think he may have spoken with Savage’s son one of those times I was delayed dealing with Savage. And Savage doesn't strike me as the power sharing type. Even with his own blood kin. My memories of the kid are more vague. Certainly nothing indicated that he was a major player. Still, if Savage’s son were a negative, Dick would have warned me. 

“I thought it was his father that was king?” Dick again, asking the questions I can’t. At least maybe shouldn’t.

“Yes.” Thomas’s tone goes a bit pedantic. The elder restating something that should be known. “But it is Hunahpu’s duty to sacrifice the Jaguar if he is ever to rule the city of Gold.”

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

I would have offered Walker a ride back to Santa Amoza, but when I look back he has vanished again. Not even a whinnie or a howl to mark his passage.

His business is done. At least to my mind. What he will make of his prophesy of skulls?

Nothing to my mind. The time of sacrifice has come - and thankfully gone. No one was born. Certainly not a God. Although I suppose that is more or less what Amhacutec considered would happen. With himself as deity of choice. Thankfully no one is dead. Muwan’s cover fire didn’t hit anyone, and even the soldier back at Pau’ah’s vantage point survived the experience. As for the last? If any of Amhacutec’s court *has* a heart they are keeping it well hidden. Unless the love of personal power counts. In that case I guess the Prince is heartbroken indeed.

Pardon me if I don't sympathize.

I suppose Walker will find some way to reconcile his beliefs with reality. Most people do. Generally it’s reality that yields on the details.

Personally, I couldn't care.

I have exactly three days before Dick and I have to be back at Santa Amoza International. If we pop back to Savage’s city today, and then catch a morning chopper out, Dick and I can be back at the Castillo de Perlas by Thursday noon. Back at the hotel by Thursday night. Which leaves us two days - and three nights - to actually *enjoy* our vacation. Together.

“Wayne?” Mayfair asks as I stroll back to the central plaza. “Will you need him?” He points to the Queseda fellow - the one who ended up in the cage with Dick and Indy. The naturally tan man is looking almost a pale as Roberts. Apparently whatever drug they gave him doesn't settle very well on an empty stomach. Or perhaps its’ the raw blood that got him. Either way, I am looking at one miserable Aztec.

I consider the point. Queseda is a victim here. Effectively an innocent - even if he did try to rabbit with the blade. That was just... an impulse. Spur of the moment, and destined for failure from step one. His bruises are punishment enough. 

“Not really,” I decide.

Dick’s case is just as strong without him, and I can see Gomez subpoenaing him for the defense.” Still - all things are… neater… without loose ends. “Do you think Teplitzin would keep an eye on him? Just for a week or two?”

That should be long enough. I doubt Gomez bothered to get a name, and that time should allow Queseda’s face to vanish in the way of all irrelevant memories.

Mayfair’s baboon grin is answer enough. He gets the idea - and loves it. A way to get one up on an old foe - and to make the man thank you for it besides.

As for Teplitzin? Well, Queseda *is* an Aztec. Being host to one of his own people for a bit is hardly much of a burden on the royal housekeeping. The prince should be delighted to get back on Savages good side so cheaply. Especially since some of Amhacutec turf will undoubtedly be up for grabs.

And for Queseda? He’ll be staying in the palace. Hell, It’s an honor.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

The city is quiet. Not too quiet. Not the death-still that comes when everything is hiding. Just the pleasant quiet of efficient calm. One chopper has just vanished over the horizon -long wall of green, and the other will not be here for fifteen minutes. I take the chance to rest, and event to enjoy the scenery. It is a rather interesting ruin. Artistically carved - if you ignore the subject matter. And the recent restaging thereof. Which I decide I should do.

The Amhacutec’s forces are broken. Muwan is moving his men up from the cliffs, and since they can come in by air it should take less then an hour.

Prince Amhacutec has already been lifted back to the ‘other’ City of Gold. First flight out. Not a prisoner. Not officially. He is, after all, a reining monarch. There are the courtesies to be considered. Not to mention the anger to the power structure if he was to be removed entirely. He will be a guest of the Savage family until after the festivities. After that? Back to Apuamarca, with a new and presumably more cowed set of ‘advisors’.

Jaguar-priest - or Virachnu, as I learn his name is - will be going directly back to Apuamarca. Do not pass go. Do not collect divine inspiration. They’ll keep him indoors and under guard until after everything has shaken out - just in case - but eventually he will be back on the job. Savage’s decision. It’s bad form to off the local padres - especially when you’re running a theocracy.

About what I expected. The accent may have changed, but politics is a familiar game to both my personas.

As for Gomez? As soon as the big chopper gets here, he’s going back to Santa Amoza with Dinah. And J’onn. Eventually. Her JSA standing will assure that he lands in jail and *stays* in jail while Cachiru and Fire and whoever else gets called in help the local Guardia put all the puzzle pieces together.

It will also make her the obvious chief witness in his trial - if and when. Good. Dick will also have to fly back No problem. It’s will get him out of Bludhaven. If he *must* play cop, a courtroom is one of the safer venues. A few weeks in Santa Amoza for the trial will get him comfortably out of the pit that is the BHPD.

And the trial will take place in Santa Amoza.

Hap’osil is closer, but I doubt the government of Hidalgo will press for jurisdiction. Not with Savage pulling the strings. And he is. Savage has his own reasons for keeping things low key - and the Gomez trial will be dramatic enough as it is. Not as spectacular as it could be. After a quick consult we decided to leave out the bit about reconquering Tawantinsuya. There are still sporadic guerrilla activities in the hills, and no one needs to turn this into a political debate. Even if Gomez would make an unlikely Marxist martyr. So. Theft of a national treasure, assault on a peace officer, and - Muwan got lucky searching some luggage - possession of cocaine with intent to resell. The last is frankly bull, and will likely be thrown put for lack of probably cause. Not to mention the absence of a search warrant. We are hardly going to argue that the local ‘resident’ of the property gave permission.

I hate to pass on the deaths of the villagers but... unproveable. At least to a Terran court. And political crimes - no matter how vicious - do not fall under the aegis of the JLA.

I suppose Gomez *could* bring up Amhacutec, but why? Inca is not a recognized state in a Santa Amoza courtroom. Even if it was, the change of venue certainly wouldn't improve his legal situation. Quite the opposite. Amhacutec is probably a lot harsher then the Santa Amoza judiciary. And it’s not like any of the Inca will be availably to testify in his defense. I assume Gomez will concentrate on buying a deal. Drugs are nothing, and the assault on Dick is... disputable. No broken bones, after all. That leaves grand theft. Find a jury that doesn’t give a shit about national pride, and argue like Mrs. Savage that the knife is only worth a few thousand? That’s what his lawyer will try.

Might work - if Gomez hadn’t murdered Simon Templar. Report on the body just came in via Oracle. That ties him all too directly to the national humiliation, and while I suspect that Xander Dax may have been Templer's original employer it’s Gomez’s loyal manager Martin Juarez who left his DNA all over the hotel room. Sloppy fools. But then - I remember Gomez saying that you just count get decent servants these days.

Cachiru is slightly less tolerant of homicide then I am. Which is saying something. And that feathered mystery man is very highly regarded as a ‘super-hero’. Worldwide, actually, but in South America especially. He will make a most impressive witness for the prosecution.

As for myself? Wayne will inevitably be deposed, but with a little work? One more idiot Yankee ‘rico’ who bought himself a bit more adventure then he could handle. I’ll moan a bit at the club, and any reports of my own actions will be dismissed with as sour grapes or as flattery.

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

Which reminds me.

*whapwhapwhap* *whapwhapwhap*

The helicopter. I stroll back to the landing area. No time like the present to get matters started.

Gomez snarls at me as three of Muwan’s men load him into the back of the larger of the helicopters. “Wayne. I never...”

“Senior Gomez.” I give him by best ‘Brucie’ look. The one Dick always says is ‘too gay’ - even for a guy he’s sleeping with. “And here I was so disappointed that you weren’t in when I came to call.”

“Wayne, you....”

“Please. Language!” I hold up one hand - fingers daintily curled. “What *would* they say at the Founders Club? I really think I must recommend that your membership be revoked.” That bit of inanity knocks him off guard. I go in for the kill. “I mean - piracy, genocide, intemperate language. Hardly the mark of a gentleman. You my be certain the Board of Governors will hear from me.”

I make a show of brushing my lapel, and leave him speechless.

I make sure Gomez is stashed well out of sight before I let Dick come chuckling into my arms. “Quite the threat, ‘Brucie’.”

“Whatever it takes, chum. I am the grand master of intimidation.”

Which is true. Just usually not in quite this way. I give Dick a half-smile. “The worst part is? I think that’s the most effective threat he’s heard all day.”

Dick hugs me. Humor and comfort and understanding. And love.

Together, we head back to where Dinah is running down a quick flight check on the helicopter.

I had expected Jones to fly out with Dinah, but apparently the lust from knowledge can... supersede... other pleasure. At least for a while. Jones is going to take advantage of Littlejohn's most probably transient gratitude to pick through the elder archaeologists brain - and sites.

I calculate the detente will last for a week - at most. Jones must share that opinion, because he’s already made plans to meet up with Dinah - in two.

Captain Muwan is going with flying out with Dinah - primarily to shift off flying duties. It’s a long trip back, and there isn’t exactly a Hilton along the way. Muwan has a perfectly valid ‘Spanish’ ID - the result of his Harvard years - and plenty of cover paper showing him as a Junior Vice-President of the Hidalgo Trading Company in charge of inland development. Given Dinah’s looks, no one will question a good-looking young man’s eagerness to ‘loan’ her a company helicopter.

“You sure you guys don’t want to come back with us?” Dinah asks, handling the clipboard up to Muwan.

“Thanks, Dinah.” I answer. A large part of me *does* want to get on that chopper and leave this place and it’s memories far behind. But the more responsible part knows what I should do. And responsibility always wins. “I think I should say goodbye to our host. Besides, I want to see that Captain Allnut and his wife make it back to Porto Chakpac without any further trouble. And that the boat is acceptable.”

Fox - capable as always - *has* managed to purchase another paddlewheeler. Apparently there is a company in St. Louis that still makes the boats - for the tourist trade. There’s a substantial waiting list, but Fox managed to convince a dinner cruise company in Portland that their passengers would be just as impressed with a more modern sailing yacht. Given that the later was free? The floating restaurant gladly gave us their reservation.

Dinah hugs Dick. “Then I’ll see you in Gotham.” She reaches over and gives me a light squeeze as well. “You take it easy, OK? I’m trusting Dick to watch your body.”

Dick grins. “My favorite job, Lady Bird.”

She snorts. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Dick laughs. Loud and happy. “I hope I’ll soon be doing several things you wouldn't do.”

Dinah *almost* blushes. Not quite, but she looks as if she might like to... just for show. “You know what I mean, cop-boy.” 

Turning from us, she steps over to Jones. “Bye, Indy.” She pulls him into a knee-cracking embrace. 

He returns the kiss - with interest. So it’s a bit of a wait before he asks, “Will I see you in Gotham too?”

“If you’re there.”

Indy pulls on his hat, then rubs his knuckles softly under her chin. “I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in.... you know.”

*whaaaaaaapppwhaaaaaaapppwhaaaaaaap* *whaapwhaapwhaap*

The rotors start. Muwan's hint that he’s waiting. And that they have a long trip still ahead.

Dinah springs for the chopper door, and with a last wave she is gone.

It is finished.

 

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE*


	36. The Grand Finale

It will be an unconscionably beautiful day.

Cold here in the shadows, but when the sun comes up? It will still be cold.

Roberts has set up a bank of cameras here on the flat roof of Savage’s palace. I suppose he wants to preserve the moment for posterity.

Personally? I’d think we would all be a lot safer if posterity never heard of this. I know I would feel a lot better if I never had.

Cold. I’ve been cold for a day now. Since we came back from Curicamarca. No. Morning after. Since I ... found out.

It was late when we finally made it back to the City of gold. Late enough to be pressing into Thursday. I was tired. Eighteen hours of strategy and coordination, moving the bulk of the army over from Xek’or and positioning the special forces at the cliffs and Pau’ah’s vantage point. Setting up jungle parameters against ambush and sending out river patrols to make sure that none of Amhacutec’s troops lingered or went bandit. All to make sure that no one decided to play director’s cut with ‘Jaguar Sacrifice: Part Two’.

Crap.

Brooks volunteered to stay. I could have gone back to the city with Jones and Dick.

Would that have.... helped?

Perhaps. Early information is always of value. But Mayfair was getting shakier by the moment, and I wanted him back in the city before Air Maya got shifted from troop transport to life flight. And, of course, Mayfair goes nowhere without Brooks. So I ‘ordered’ them out and finished the CCI myself.

Mistake? Perhaps. Probably not.

I could have gone looking for Savage when I got back. Would have, if he had been ‘one of us’. JLA or JLA or Titan or even Doom Patrol. But it was midnight and the man was a civilian. It’s not polite to call after ten. Alfred taught me that back before... back when I was a child. And I *knew* the crisis was over. That whatever was left would wait until morning.

So I waved off K’usal’s offer of a late meal and just headed up to my room. Up to the mortal comforts of a hot bath and a soft bed and Dick. Always Dick.

I could have asked Dick. Could have woken him for final debrief. He didn’t know, of course. Not then. Not quite. But he had been in the City. He had heard and he had seen, and if we had gone over it all? Together?

Would I have seen? Have understood?

Perhaps. Probably not.

But it was midnight, and he was asleep. Not surprising. Dick had had little more sleep then I had this week. None in the last thirty-six hours. He had to been bone aching tired. I was. And the crisis was over.

He looked so... sweet... which his fist tucked under his chin and his dark curls wild against the piles of pillows. So beautiful, and so dear. So much the boy I cherished grown into the man I loved. So I just slid in beside him and, when he struggled up from his dreams I whispered, “Hush, Dick. Rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

If we had spoken then? Would that have made a difference?

Perhaps. Not likely.

But when morning came we still didn’t talk. At least not right away. Because Dick was there, and I was there, and he was still beautiful. Strong and tan in the golden light. The first exhaustion of battle had been slept past, and the adrenaline was still there, and Dick was warm and strong and *with* me.

It was noon before we talked. Noon before we left our private world to join Indy for an almost as private lunch on the patio. Noon before Dick charmed S’uuj into cornbread toast and a fresh batch of scrambled eggs, served in our own little enclave apart from the increasingly frantic bustle of the dignitary filled city. Noon before Jones finally broke though the gilded layers of Founder’s Club civitas and convinced me - really convinced me - of what was and what was to be.

Not easy. Batman is supposed to be all-seeing, but Bruce Wayne? Well, like Mrs. Alvarez said back on that first day, the people in the jungle lands are not ‘educated’ the way we are. Not ‘our sort’. Not as ‘good’ as us, by unspoken implication. And I in turn had inwardly sneered at her petty elitism, because Savage and his men had gone to Harvard or Howard or UCLA. They were my father’s teachers. His colleagues. They were ‘civilized’. They were ‘our kind’. My kind.

We may run mad like Dent – or greedy like Shreck - or even monomaniacal like Luthor on one of his more imperial binges, but we run within the boundaries of our common assumptions. 

I shiver that Dick believed first. So much of me has wanted to shield my boy, and so often I have failed, but I bled inside to think what he must have seen to make Jones believable. And in the end - I believed.

‘The time of sacrifice is coming. A legend will die, a God will be born, and the greatest among you will risk his heart.’ So speak the Skulls of Bengalla.’

Walker had warned me. Warned me at the start. But I discounted the man in purple, because I have a general discomfort with ‘magic’ and because he was not truly ‘one of us’. The first is hubris, and the last? 

Dick *is* the greatest among us. That I have always known. 

Should I have spoken with Jones? Told him who Walker was, and what he had said? Would Jones have understood the warning? Would any of us have acted differently if we had?

Could I have changed this? Even then?

I could have taken the dagger myself. Or destroyed it. That would have done - something. Perhaps put an end to this... atrocity. Perhaps start a war that would never end. A thousand years is a long time to hold a grudge, but Amhacutec has proven these people can do just that.

A hundred wars – named and nameless – has proven that any people can - will - do just that.

I could have called J’onn back. Brought in the heavy hitters and to hell with diplomacy. Diana? No. Maybe Kal. Kal would have backed me. Acted without question. He has the power to put an end to this. But to do so would put an end to this civilization as well. The first ‘Conquesta’ killed over thirty percent of this population. What would a second one do?

What would politicizing Kal do? This is not the only suicidal cluster-fumble of theocratic powermonging passing for a nation-state, just the only one offending me today. Do I want to trust planetary governance to an alien morality? Would I even trust my own?

In honest days, no.

I could have...

It doesn’t matter. I didn’t. That’s what it comes to. I had my choice, and I made it, and now I’m going to have to live with it. Going to have to find some way *to* live with it. To live with *this*.

Dr. Jones and I will sit atop the palace with Littlejohn. Supposedly this will allow the senior archaeologist to explain the ceremony without disturbing the ritual.

Damn ritual is disturbing enough on it’s own.

I accepted gratefully. At least its better then Renwick’s offer of a place on the platform. That high honor is one I can do without. I doubt I will keep my composure. Hell, I’ll be glad to keep my breakfast!

Not that I ate one.

I turn to Dick. He was also offered a place of honor. Even higher then mine. Apparently the locals take the sancu seriously. Dick is now ‘Ric Kawil’ and ‘Richarzin’. Welcome to join at the altar, or sit this out in the quiet of Temple of the Moon. 

Savage’s son assured Dick that, even thought he had been born ‘Spanish’, he was now a God-Prince. He would be most welcome to participate.

Dick declined, citing his duty to me.

That also is something I will have to deal with. Not Dick’s new status. I have always considered him my equal. Or so I have told myself. I have told myself many things which – standing here – I find less solid than I am comfortable with. Evidently equality is easier when I am imposing a gypsy boy on East Coast bluebloods than when said same man is playing the ‘he is mine and you must accept him’ card.

At that thought I turn to him. “Dick?” He is watching the movement in the plaza. Not the altar - but the children trying to keep order among the herd of sacred llamas while their parents in turn try to run herd on them. His nature. He keeps an eye on what really matters. 

At the sound of his name, he turns back to me. “Bruce?”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“You will.”

I have no answer to that. I will stay, and he will stay with me. He’ll pay the price in nightmares, but he’ll stay.

I have always been humbled by his loyalty. Even more then his love, his loyalty is my true constant. Even when I doubted everything, I never once doubted that.

Oh, my beloved. Loyalty is a very chilly virtue.

Is this loyalty? Is this love? I suppose Savage would say so. This is his idea. His demand. His culture, and the fruit of all that he has done. Savage would call it obedience. And faith. And piety. Cardinal virtues. St. Francis Xavier would agree. 

I? I hope that I am never loved like that.

We go to our seats.

The singing is starting now. A full choir, well trained and melodious. Backed by harps and horns and drums and woody flutes shivering high in the clear air. The sound is far purer then the rough a capella chant of Amhacutec’s solders. The sentiment is not. These are the same words as I heard on that morning, shifted far too slightly by the change in language. Prayers for the potatoes, for the corn, for the prosperity of the community. For all the things they want given to them. 

I suppose all happy people pray like that. It is only pain that teaches one to pray like Azeral. To pray not for strength, but for endurance to bear what comes when strength fails. To pray for faith to bear what comes after truth fails.

I seldom pray. Jean-Paul says I should. That there is mercy and grace in God.

Perhaps. Someday. When I am past the confusion of God and Santa Claus. When I am pure enough to pray like him, and not like these people.

The nobles are marching in. Men from the left. Women from the right. Long rows of feathers and gold and jade. Dancers flank the processions on either side. The drifts of fragrant petals muffle their steps.

Burning chili drifts up from the plaza, the capsaicin enough to sting the eyes like tear gas.

Littlejohn’s cheeks are wet. I tell myself it is not all the smoke.

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^)

All my life, I have been a man haunted.

I have been haunted by my parent’s death. I have decried its uselessness and raged at its cruelty. It had been my mantra, by purpose, my cause. The wellspring of everything I am and will be.

Now I know that there are worse ways to die.

Worse then gunshot.

Worse than piranhas.

Worse then fire.

Worse then lying bleeding in an alley with your son screaming your name.

You could be lying on an altar of jade with your son holding your hand, and smiling as you die.

 

*END CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX*


	37. Sneaky Slightly Smutty Post-Script and Sorta-Happy Ending

Long flight back to Santa Amoza. No matter. We had three pilots. Plus motivation.

Kin Kawil Hunahpu invited Jones to stay for the coronation.

Jones declined. I think he’s had enough ‘discovery’ for a while. Besides, Dinah is waiting.

Dick is due back in Bludhaven.

I, of course, have to get back to my duties. With Gomez... removed... the local commodities market will be dangerously unstable. Not to mention the impact on river shipping. Thousands of people depend on the wood products industry for their livelihood. Those people therefore depend on me. And as the chopper was available?

Savage’s son shook my hand and assured me that he understood.

My hand. I’ve had the urge to wash it repeatedly. Nothing visible. I know he had washed his hands. I saw him. But? Somehow I could still feel the blood on his. On mine.

We said farewell to Jones at the Castillo de Perlas. Told him to keep the suite as long as he was in town. He and Dinah can... rest.

Perhaps I should have stayed as well, but... Dinah had called Oracle had called Lucius and the plane was waiting. No sense to pay extra airport fees. Or to keep the pilot out an extra day. We booked a late take-off and headed for home.

Good choice.

Alfred must have spoken with Dinah. Or perhaps Babs. Either way, he had the charter stock the plane with all our personal comforts. Even that hand-roll sushi flown in from that little place Kato showed us in Moloki last summer. My favorite. I should eat it. It doesn't keep well. And we didn't stop for lunch. But I’m just... not hungry.

At least? I watch Dick stroll out of the tiny bathroom, the towel draped low over his hips and stray water droplets catching crystal in his dark hair. Not hungry for food.

What depraved monster am I to think of...

Dick was heading for the video shelves, but he sees something that changes his course. That bends him instead in my direction.

“Bruce?” He rests against my back and drapes his arms over my shoulders. 

He licks the back of my ear, then nibbles at the lobe. Nips just the finest line shy of pain. Not conventionally erotic, but from him more compelling then more blatant gestures. It sends a line of fire down to my toes, with several strategic detours at points of interest along the way.

“It’s nothing you did.” He rubs his palms over my ribs, warming them. “Nothing you could have done.”

A lie - but a loving lie.

He rubs his jaw against my hair, sending the faint post-shower mist in a spray against my cheeks. Drops as cool as the tears I do not shed. “You did the best that you could.”

A truth. A bitter truth. As so often before, my best was far short of the ideal. I who have battled with angels - and yet fallen to the conceits of men. That it was my best is no consolation. It is my curse.

For all that I am considered hard and cynical, my life has been one of faith. Without overriding faith, how ever could I have considered the more than mortal duties I have taken on myself? Faith in justice. Faith in a knowable good, and in its triumph. But the greatest of these faiths has been in love.

I believe in my parents love. In Alfred’s love. In Jason’s love. In love in general, and in it’s power to heal and cure and redeem. To teach us to serve good. To raise us above our narrow visions and connect us to something vaster then ourselves.

I believe in love that is power and strength and wisdom and purity.

And now - I have seen blasphemy.

I shiver, suddenly bone cold despite the careful atmosphere.

“I’m here.”

And he is. That too I have seen, and I believe it above and against all the evils of the world, and will hold that faith against the gates of hell. A love not merely to die for, but to live through.

“It’s all right,” Dick whispers, rocking me in rhythm to his words. “It's all right. All right.”

It’s not, of course. The world has been darkened, and death can not be redeemed. But as long as I have this? Have Dick? Have the bedrock on which I can always anchor my faith? At least it’s... livable.

 

** TERMINUS EST **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With infinite thanks to Chicago, inspiration to Muses, without whom this would never have been finished. Or – you know – begun. The things that are right are the instances where I listened to her - and the things that are wrong are where I did not.
> 
> With thanks also to the many other writers and artists (cannon and otherwise) who have contributed to richly to the DC universe. Thanks to you Batman is not fiction. Batman is an urban legend.
> 
> This is the official ‘last novel’ of the Hornet-verse, in that it resolves the ‘question of the play’ begun in Night of the Hornet. It was not the last written. (And for the infelicities of a novice author I do beg your pardon.) It is also not the last I will post. History, being kind in one way if not all, has allowed me to arrange the sundry bits of prompt and response into something like a linear narrative. (For low values of linear and low values of narrative.) Still, it is enough of an ‘ending space’ to allow me to thank you all for your patience and forbearance over the very long and often rocky textual quest.
> 
> Now, if anyone is still reading this (and after thirty-six chapters I am frankly impressed by your endurance) I do want to hear from you. Because otherwise I will never believe that anyone read the whole thing. 
> 
> Oh - and for the legal types? © KKR-2002


	38. Post post-script

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of us just don’t know when to quit.

“Dick!” Bruce dropped his book as the double doors to the clock-library opened unexpectedly. It *was* Dick. Thrice unexpected. Once because he was here. Once because of his entrance via the mundane hall rather then the cave access. Finally because of his plain jeans and shirt. Lately time together had been spent in kevlar or with Dick-in-uniform or... for a few blessed recent days... Dick-in-nothing. This?

Bruce pushed himself out of the deep leather chair and into open arms.

The move cut off the enjoyable image. Not even the Bat was paranoid enough to kiss with his eyes open. Still? There were compensations.

It was a long minute before either man yielded to the need for oxygen.

“Dick?”

Dick ran his fingers though his damp curls, forcing some order to the helmet-flattened mess. “Week off.” 

Bruce caught the broad fingers, drying them on the front of his white shirt. “The force is at half strength.”

Dick caught a button - teasing it loose. “Yah - but the crime rates near zero.”

“The snow is gone.” Bruce trapped the palm, ending the distraction.

That brought out the trademark Grayson grin. “You think crooks like freezing rain any better?”

Bruce looks over his lovers shoulder. The window which should have framed a postcard view of the east lawn above the Smugglers Cliffs was instead a gray slate, marred only by the darker spots where leaves or such had been caught by the near-gale winds.

“I’m on mandatory leave – to make up for the overtime they had to pay me.” Dick snarled the words. Automatically. 

Right. When Dick had flown back to testify at the Gomez trial. Bruce had provided the hotel. The Santa Amoza courts had paid for the ticket. Bludhaven, however, had been on the hook for Dick’s salary, since testimony in criminal cases fell under the union definition of duty. They could, however, ‘compensate’ him with time off in lieu of money – at the Police Chief’s discretion.

Cops hated that particular bit of bureaucratic Scroogery. Not that the ‘substitution’ of unasked vacation for overtime pay made any real difference to Dick’s lifestyle. Dick was proud, but not an idiot. And even without direct support from Bruce he still had his Titian’s stipend, and his share of the circus profits, and the dividend income from where Bruce had invested Dick’s parent’s life insurance, and the rent from the apartment building Dick owned though a shell company and his share of Hogan’s bar. Not wealth – not by Wayne standards – but enough to keep him out of the ‘kept’ category. And - whatever Roy might say - he *did* read his paychecks. 

“No fun hanging around the apartment. No good games to watch at Matt’s. Got to do *something*. So...?” Dick’s eyes took on a teasing sparkle.

Bruce’s eyes darted briefly at the innocent-looking clock. “You want to...”

“No. Still no.” Dick plopped down in Bruce’s abandoned chair. Leaving Bruce the choice of releasing his hand or following him down.

Bruce followed. The chair wasn’t that small.

Dick wiggled a bit. Officially to make space. “Only Tempest could patrol in....

Bruce leaned closer. “I was going to say, go somewhere.”

“How?” Dick wiggled again - maybe not entirely in play. Bruce Wayne was several inches taller - and all that muscle was heavy.

“Dresher Civil Aviation has a runway open.”

Dick froze. The Robin/Nightwing side of his mind still had the brain cells to run an automatic analysis. Right. Being closer to the foothills would shield the smaller airport from the worst of the winds. The low hanger rates would explain Wayne Tech storing a few of the smaller jets there. Plus - a little voice added - the Angel angle would motivate Bruce to... be on good terms... with the local portmaster. No telling when a friend might need a favor. So if *anyone* could get a take-off time in this morass?

“One might argue that I owe you that. You did miss part of your last vacation.”

Dick searched the other man’s face. Politely blank, of course, but were the eyes... hopeful? Dick brushed the nearby lips with his own - and watched the blue eyes sparkle. 

“Where?”

“Hawaii?” Bruce shifted his weight to the chair arm, starting to rise. “Warm - and we won’t need a passport.”

“Great!” Dick chuckled. “When I came over? I was hoping to get lei’s.”

 

^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) ^^V^^ (^V^) 

 

FINIS

And this time I promise I mean it. Really.

©KKR 2003


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